Warden of Malfoy
by boursin
Summary: "Hermione relit the candles and, as he finished standing, she saw exactly who it was. He appeared to be as confused as she, because it was Lucius Malfoy and he did not look old. He looked exactly how she remembered him." Humor/Mystery/Drama/Romance/Time Travel and Hermione in 2015.
1. The Heavily Warded Malfoy Manor

_DAILY PROPHET - MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH, 1998 - EXTRA_

_**YOU-KNOW-WHO TURNS OUT TO BE A LOSER; WAR IS OVER**_

_**GOLDEN TRIO TO BE AWARDED HIGHEST MEDAL OF MERLIN PLATED IN GOLD**_

_**NARCISSA MALFOY FOUND DEAD; DRACO MALFOY TO UNDERGO EXTENSIVE REHABILITATION**_

_This morning at 8:45 AM, Narcissa Malfoy was found dead of a hexing at Malfoy Manor in a suspected murder case. The suspects are the two last remaining Death Eaters at large, whose useless names have no need of mention, and who have been apprehended by Malfoy Manor's extensive warding complex and are currently being questioned at the Ministry. Life sentences in Azkaban are extremely likely, as Mrs. Malfoy had become an invaluable resource for Auror Death Eater investigations following the fall of Voldemort. Information and assistance from Mrs. Malfoy had resulted in at least 40 Death Eater arrests over the past year, and Auror Chief Kingsley Shacklebolt has speculated that Narcissa Malfoy helped save hundreds of lives by her assistance in removing Death Eaters from threatening the public at large. _

_"We are devastated by the loss of Narcissa Malfoy. She became invaluable in the last days of the war and our thoughts are with Draco during this difficult time," commented Shaklebolt on Monday. _

_"Narcissa Malfoy was a saint!" was Minister Toffe's reply when asked for comment. "A SAINT, I say!" _

_But alas: Draco Malfoy, at the tender age of 18 years old, has lost not one, but both parents in the course of a single month. His father, Lucius, went missing without a trace three weeks ago while erecting Old Magic wards at the manor. He is presumed totally obliterated. The youngest Malfoy has been admitted to St. Mungo's psychiatric ward for rehabilitation. _

Hermione put down the paper and stared off into space.

"You know," she said, as Harry and Ron were sitting at the same table, "I never liked Draco, and I'll admit I kind of hoped he'd suffer, and I kind of resented him and his silver spoon and his sense of entitlement, and his smarmy face."

"Yeah?" replied Ron, and despite his mouth being around a large sandwich, it was clear he agreed with each sentiment and wanted her to go on.

"But this?" she glanced at the paper. "I wouldn't wish this on anyone."

Ron snorted. So did Harry. Okay, fine, she was tortured in the Malfoy house. She pretty much hated the Malfoys. They were, admittedly, The Worst. However, she never thought Draco was bad to the core, or anything. He was just a lame guy who was misguided, and then in over his head. Kind of like all the Malfoys.

"Really, guys?" she asked them, holding up the paper, now folded. "You would want this for Draco?" She shook the paper, as if that furthered her cause.

Ron shrugged and enjoyed his sandwich.

"Sorry, Hermione," said Harry. "After what we've been through, I don't care about what happens to Draco Malfoy."

He had a point. Harry, especially Harry, had a point. His whole life had been a series of very unfortunate events, and it was a miracle he wasn't currently being submitted to St. Mungo's for psychiatric evaluation, along with Draco. Well, maybe he eventually would be. It wouldn't be shocking. She wondered how he held it together as well as he did.

"Hey, we've got to get going; they're giving us some medals," said Ron, finished sandwiching and standing up.

Hermione stood too and sighed at the paper, maybe a little dramatically. It was really a shame such a proud family had been laid to waste like that. The moment passed, though, and there were things to be done, crowds to meet, and awards to be awarded. The Malfoys left Hermione's consciousness. At least, she forgot about them for a very, very long time.

**MARCH 2015**

The derelict entrance to Malfoy Manor, though unoccupied for seventeen years, still held a graceful repose which had been intensified by overgrown vines and age. Through the curling wrought iron gate (now wrung by ropes of wild ivy) could be seen frozen stone figures beneath shooting brambles and birds' nests, carved fountains papered with dead leaves and the occasional scuttling squirrel, and marred cobble pathways leading round a garden that promised that it had once been lovely, grand, and to be envied. In its derelict state it was still to be envied, because it captured that thing of antiquity and tragedy and wonder which was rare to be seen but which always left a mark on the viewer. Beyond the gardens and paths and stone maidens, the house itself sat mute and large with dark, cool patience.

Hermione couldn't stop staring at it. She was kind of enraptured, really.

"It's just awful, isn't it?" she said to Luna, who was gazing through the gate along with her. "I mean, we knew them when they were everything in the magic world."

"Huh," replied Luna, clearly thinking her own thoughts.

"And now it's like they never even _existed," _continued Hermione. She sighed.

"It's not dead," said Luna.

"What's not dead?" asked Hermione.

"The estate," said Luna. "It's just sleeping."

"Oh," said Hermione, not sure how to reply to that. Luna had extraordinary magic sensitivity, though, and as a result she'd become pretty much the top artifact recovery accessory in the whole wizarding world due to her ability to sense, locate, and disable wards, and especially old wards. Sometimes very old and very dark wards. Because of this, Hermione would just let Luna do her job and ask questions later.

Hermione paced to one end of the manor gate, where paint flecks peeled from iron and moss protruded from between stone, and occupied herself with casting furtive glances towards the manor while going over in her mind the rare books she'd come to recover. It felt like stealing. Why did it feel like stealing?

On the edge of Hermione's consciousness, Luna droned a mystical hum.

She wasn't stealing. She was on Ministry business! Well, Ministry _library_ business, which, if one were to rate Ministry business, was the best business of all. And anyway, the thought of actually recovering the rare books she was looking for, even if it was from Malfoy Manor, gave Hermione a thrill that was only surpassed by the thought of then _reading_ those rare books, and then (the best part) _digesting_ them.

She momentarily compared herself to a voracious predator, with thoughts like that. It was shameful. A voracious book-eating predator? Hermione really needed to get a life.

But she had a life! Maybe. It really depended on who you asked.

Hermione wasn't married. Oh, she'd _almost _been married. Twice. Maybe three times, if you count pre-engagement engagements. She'd almost known he was the one, or maybe _he_ was, or _him_. She'd even kind of thought about _that guy in accounting_, but he wasn't willing and nothing ever came of it. It just never worked out. Somehow.

Luna married Neville Longbottom and must have had some serious foresight because that guy turned out to be _hot _as all-get-out, and a fine husband and father to boot. Well, this was Luna, after all. She probably just knew it would happen. It kind of made Hermione loathe the "science" of mysticism all the more. Maybe a little bit of that loathing came from wishing she had some talent in the skill.

Despite failures in Divination and life in general, Hermione was wildly successful in her field. She was the leading expert in ancient tome recovery and interpretation, and curated the Ministry Library on the side. One could safely say books were her life. She could talk about them for hours. That might explain the lack of finished engagements, who knows? Hermione had a bad habit of self-loathing.

"Hermione," said Luna.

Broken from her rough reverie, Hermione turned to her friend and associate, Luna Longbottom (the last name worked, better than Lovegood, even, and how unfair is that? Does anything really go with "Hermione"?).

Luna looked at her with eyes that saw things Hermione didn't want them to see, but Luna was polite enough to pretend she didn't.

"There might be wards against your type of blood," said Luna, a careful bent in her voice.

"That would make sense, wouldn't it?" remarked Hermione.

"So… let me know if you suddenly feel any strange sensations."

"Strange sensations?"

"Mm-hmm."

No more explanation was forthcoming. Luna turned to the gate with her wand and, muttering, shut down the gate wards with a dim blue ripple of light. She tested the gate hook, and, after a rusty whine, it unlatched, and the gate groaned slowly and painfully open. They'd gained the inner courtyard, and it felt like an intrusion, though nobody was home.

"This feels weird," said Hermione to herself and no one. She turned to Luna: "Does this feel weird to you?"

"Yes," replied Luna, her footstep cautious on a cobblestone.

Hermione kept talking as they moved towards the manor, because silence made her anxious.

"It's like the manor has drawn a breath, but it keeps holding it, and holding it, and I wonder when it will let it out, and how can it possibly hold its breath so long? Surely it must exhale at some point! What is it waiting for?" babbled Hermione. And then:

"For what is it waiting?" she asked again, but quietly, and (for some reason) correcting her own grammar.

Then her skin began to prickle. At first she thought it was her imagination, but then it was definitely not her imagination.

"Luna? I'm having a strange sensation…"

Luna, ever dreamy, was instantly alert.

"Tell me," said Luna.

"Prickling, more and more, Luna, and now it's hurting, and ow ow! I'm leaving!"

Hermione turned on her heel and stalked out the gate, where the pain and pressure left immediately. Definitely a Malfoy Manor Mudblood ward. Ugh! She was both insulted and annoyed over the stupidity of a curse of that sort still being up and running at a long-abandoned manor.

"I can't disable it, but I think I know what to do," said Luna, who had come up beside her unawares. Luna took a stick pin from her satchel and pricked her own finger, then, taking Hermione's hand, smeared the drop of blood across the back of it.

"There," said Luna. "Let's try it out."

"Oh, an experiment, is it?" replied Hermione, incredulous, maybe.

"Yep," said Luna with a smile. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Ignominious death," replied Hermione as she followed Luna, once again, through the gates of hell. Muggle hell, anyway.

Regardless, it worked. Hermione was no longer harangued by mudblood-hating Malfoy type wards, because apparently those types of wards are easily confused by a drop of blood. It seemed so very impractical, but she wasn't about to give advice to the type of people that makes that sort of ward.

They beat a hasty path towards the manor proper.

A number of assorted ward removals, disablings, and avoidances later, along with one very scary trip down a darkened, dusty, creepy-portrait filled hallway that refused to be well-lit no matter how much _Lumos_ magic was used, they were throwing open the tall, dusty velvet drapes of the Malfoy family library. Sunlight seemed to only seep into the room, not quite beaming, for thickness of dust and atmosphere. Despite the dullness of the creeping light, however, Hermione was delighted by the sheer number of books lining the shelves of the library. She reached out a hand to touch the bindings of a row of books.

"Wait!" Luna yelled, shoving Hermione out of the way. Rude, but effective. "I think there's another ward on these shelves."

"Oh, good grief!" replied Hermione, exasperated by yet another ward. "What's wrong with this place? It's like a person can't even walk around without getting warded to death!"

"The Malfoys couldn't really trust anyone in the final days, you know. On either side."

"It'd be lousy to live here," muttered Hermione.

"Yeah," agreed Luna airily as she inspected the shelves. "I guess."

"It's dark and dusty and depressing," said Hermione. Then she added: "And overly warded. I don't know how anyone managed to get in to murder Narcissa. Not when it's like this. And even still like this after seventeen years!"

"I don't think anyone's messed with it, seeing how it belongs to Draco."

Again Hermione felt like she was stealing. But, Draco had given the Ministry permission… more or less. Draco wasn't really all that cogent these days. Or hadn't been for the past seventeen years. Hermione was antsy to do something, not just wait for Luna to de-ward the place.

"What is going to happen to this place when Draco dies?" asked Hermione.

"Beats me," replied Luna.

"Surely the Malfoys have some distant relation somewhere?"

"Uh… didn't they all die in the war?"

Hermione sighed. Not like she should care. It was just weird and confusing and something didn't sit quite right.

"Luna," said Hermione, with thoughts occurring to her, "I don't think Narcissa's death makes sense."

"No?" murmured Luna, her attention focused elsewhere.

"Well, no. Despite this manor, which is practically locked up like a safe, she was murdered, and _then_ the murderers were apprehended by the manor's wards. So the wardings couldn't stop her from dying, but they could catch her killers? Something is off, there, Luna."

"I guess maybe … maybe?" offered Luna, fiddling with a bookshelf. It sparked.

"Wards strong enough to manhandle a couple of murderous death eaters until the authorities can arrive are certainly strong enough to stop them from murdering the wards' charge."

"We don't know the details, though, do we?" replied Luna.

"No," said Hermione. "No, we don't."

Hermione walked to the dim window where, outside, the darkling sky promised mist, not proper rain. She gazed at the overgrown, wintered grounds.

"But I'm going to find out," she murmured, too quietly for Luna to hear, because Hermione was pretty sure it was crazy-beans to get mixed up with it, but her intellect was helplessly intrigued by the puzzle of it nonetheless. A murder mystery! It was kind of exciting. Fine, _really _exciting. She bit her lip as her brain began to whirl.

Southward in the manor, a tremendous *crack* shook the house, sending rolling tremors outward, like reverberations from an earthquake, but manor-sized. Hermione experienced a sudden jolt of fear-and-thrill adrenaline.

"Holy cow," said Luna's voice from nearby, and under other circumstances Hermione would have laughed at such a bizarre phrase, but today she only grabbed Luna by the wrist and ran for the hallway.

"Keep your wand out, Luna!"

They ran in the direction of the rolling tremors and the noise brought them to the dining room, which seemed to be the apex of whatever was happening, because she could _feel_ magic in the air, crawling across her skin like the prickly muggle ward… except without the pain. Or racism. The dining table was missing. Why was the dining table missing? A piece of plate armor fell off the wall and Hermione nearly _stupify-_ed it out of reflex. She was a librarian, not an auror… but nobody expected this sort of thing to happen today.

Luna shot out her wand to light all of the candles in the room, and that helped. A lot, actually.

"It's the manor," said Luna. "This is the manor's magic."

Ugh, this house. Hermione made a silent pact with herself never to come back here again, after today.

"What is it doing?" asked Hermione.

Luna shook her head.

"It isn't hostile, though," she said.

Hermione wanted to grab Luna and demand she tell her how she could know that. It felt hostile. Well, perhaps more _dangerous_ than overtly hostile, so instead she dragged Luna along with her behind an old (probably very, very old) buffet for the sort of vague protection a librarian might look for when said librarian was maybe about to get smushed by house magic.

"Hey!" objected Luna. "I said it wasn't hostile!"

"That doesn't mean we won't get crushed in the crossfire," replied Hermione. Luna ceded the point. They squatted behind the buffet, but watched with intense interest, because _intellect. _

Light flashed, making the candlelight seem dark in comparison, and it blinded Hermione momentarily. She blinked, trying to see, and air rushed past her in great puffs, smelling like … parchment. Old parchment. And glue. Glue? Luna sneezed.

Another crack rent the air, and along with it came the scent of a spice she couldn't put her finger on, and of autumn, and a thousand memories. Her sight came back to her and, though the candles had been blown out, she could see in the middle of the dining room was a person, crouched.

"Ahhh!" yelled Hermione, jumping up and pointing her wand at Sudden Person. In retrospect, she would recall Luna's reaction being nearly identical to hers.

Sudden Person's shoulders rose and fell with his breathing, for SP was a he, obviously, as Hermione could never mistake the masculine details particular to the male form in the shoulders, the hands, even something about the crouch he employed spoke "man", not to mention his clothing, no robes, (perhaps in haste?), white button-down, dark grey trousers, and black boots to the knee, he was slender but masculine and his hair was fair, white-blond... _Malfoy blond. _

As this last factoid drilled its way through Hermione's brain she yelled again nonsensically.

The Sudden Malfoy moved, perhaps spurred by the noise Hermione was making, and she noticed he was holding a wand, clenched in his fist like a lifeline and all of a sudden her inquisitive mind and her fear of _Sudden Malfoys with Wands_ were in an inner battle to the death, should she wait, or should she hex the ever living daylights out of him? Luna resolved the battle immediately by staying Hermione's hand.

"Remember where we are," she said to Hermione, who, most agreeably, suddenly remembered where they were. One attempted hex on a Malfoy and the whole house was liable to crush them to bits.

So instead, Hermione relit the candles and, as he finished standing, she saw exactly who it was. He appeared to be as confused as she, because it was Lucius Malfoy and he did not look old. He looked exactly how she remembered him, which _was_ old then, but she was a teenager and back then all parents were old nonentities. He wobbled.

Ugh, Lucius Malfoy. Just everything, _everything_ she hated, in one person, like some kind of banner symbol for everything that could go wrong with anything, ever.

His breathing was strangely labored.

But not only did she loathe him, he was scary, too, because unlike Draco, who was just kind of an annoying git, Lucius had always had great power, somehow. With Draco she knew his limits were small, but with Lucius there were no limits. She suddenly wanted to hex him again, and take her chances with the house… because in her mind he was definitely more dangerous.

"Mr. Malfoy?" said Luna's voice somewhere beside her.

Mr. Malfoy made a small noise and then collapsed, unconscious. The wand he had been holding clattered across the parquet floor with a sharp recitative.


	2. Mr Malfoy Awakens

It was with great effort that Luna and Hermione dragged a bafflingly well-preserved but unconscious Lucius Malfoy out of the Grand Malfoy Dining Room (minus a dining table), and into the Equally Grand Malfoy Adjacent Sitting Room, where they laid him on the least spider-webby green velvet settee in the room to tend to his unconsciousness. To say they "laid" him on the settee wouldn't be entirely accurate; there was a lot of dragging, and maybe even some rolling, and through the whole ordeal Mr. Malfoy was probably better off being totally unaware of what was happening, as it could have been described as extraordinarily undignified.

Finally, however, they had Lucius laid in a more or less dignified manner upon the settee.

"Now what do we do?" asked Hermione, maybe a little out of breath. Luna was gazing at Lucius' sleeping face.

"Hermione, he hasn't aged a day," whispered Luna.

"I know," Hermione whispered back.

"Where has he been?"

Hermione just fell silent, because there were no answers, and instead took to studying the sleeping man on the dusty settee. Watching Lucius Malfoy sleep was intriguing in the way watching a sleeping lion would be intriguing; fascinating to see such a creature defenseless and in repose, but with the constant anxiety that at any moment it could wake and claw your face off.

"Do you think he's going to kill us when he wakes up?" asked Hermione, mostly rhetorically.

Luna chortled.

"You seem to forget the Malfoys joined our side at the end."

"They did," replied Hermione, but in a noncommittal manner, as if it was all dubious and it was hard for her to imagine Lucius Malfoy reformed after all this time.

"He probably won't," said Luna, settling.

"We should probably floo the Ministry," said Hermione, glancing around for the fireplace.

"Maybe," said Luna. "But maybe we should wait."

Hermione glanced at Luna, as if she were a lunatic.

"Why…?" she asked Luna, slowly.

Luna sat back on her heels. "Alright, there are some things that I've been thinking about. With all that magic in the dining room, and all the wards around, and Mr. Malfoy suddenly appearing like this the day we come in, and he's just exactly as he was when he disappeared seventeen years ago… and I think the house did it, and I think the house wants us to deal with it."

"The house, the house!" exclaimed Hermione, cursing the house in her mind. "Tell the house to get rid of the Muggleborn curse, if the house wants us to deal with … with that guy."

Hermione crossed her arms and regarded that guy. He stirred, and Hermione and Luna both shot back away from him, instinctively.

"Nghnnn," said Lucius Malfoy eloquently.

"Where's his wand?" whispered Hermione.

"It's over here!" Luna whispered back.

"That isn't his wand!" More whispering.

"Then whose is it?"

"His wand was destroyed by Voldemort!"

"Well, technically-"

"Shhhhhh!" Luna pointed at Lucius, who finally deigned to blink. Consciousness seemed to enlighten him, and he sat up in a flash and with a gasp. Hermione found she was pointing two wands at Lucius, in her haste to defend herself from lions.

To his credit, Lucius took a moment to take in his surroundings and the two women sitting near the settee before he made any rash statements or tried to kill anyone. Smoothing a stray strand of Malfoy blond hair behind his ear, he asked:

"Who are you?"

Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment, wondering first why he didn't recognize her, then kind of briefly relieved he didn't recognize her (considering their interactions in the past), and finally feeling indignant he didn't recognize her (she was famous!).

"Mr. Malfoy, you don't recognize us?" asked Luna.

Mr. Malfoy sat and stared at them for a moment. Comprehension passed across his features like a clearing cloud. And then he seemed to visibly pale.

"Oh, Merlin," he said, and then stood up.

"Oh, no," he said, adding little to the discourse, but taking in the decrepit, unused state of the Grand Malfoy Sitting Room in which he stood. "No, no, no…"

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"No…." he said again, his gaze turning towards the outer hallway. "Narcissa," he breathlessly murmured as he turned on his heel and ran out.

"Mr. Malfoy!" called Luna. She turned to look at Hermione. Hermione suddenly felt like laughing, though she knew it wasn't the time to be laughing, but the whole situation was so absurd and terrifying and confusing and unexplained that Hermione didn't know what to do besides laugh. But she didn't. Barely.

So she stood up and followed Lucius Malfoy whichever way he went. He was anxiously running through the manor, calling out Narcissa's name now and again when Hermione found him upstairs.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, but he only gave her a glance and moved on. She followed again.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she said again, with more insistence, and she touched his white sleeve.

Lucius flinched away, as if burned. He also looked a little outraged.

"Do not touch me," he said to her sharply, too sharply. Annoyingly sharply. She didn't deserve such sharpness when she was only trying to help this… this… ugh, she really didn't like Lucius Malfoy.

"How is it that you are even in here?" he asked her, as if she had no right to set foot in Malfoy Manor, which she, actually, kind of didn't. But whatever! His response led her to believe he was very aware of the anti-Mudblood ward still in effect on this place and that was just infuriating.

"Some of your more questionable wards are ridiculously easy to circumvent, Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione, unable to restrain her tongue.

"Oh," replied Lucius, glancing her over once. "Well. You'll have to tell me how you did it."

As if she would just want to hand that information over to him so he could improve the stupid jerkwad ward! As if she were just waiting for the opportunity to assist him because of his superiority in any way possible!

"I forgot," replied Hermione with a smile.

Lucius's eyes narrowed.

"How old are you?" he asked her after a moment.

"That's kind of a rude question," she replied.

"Alright, fine, what year is it?"

"...2015?" Hermione slowly replied, putting the pieces together in her mind.

He might have visibly paled before, but it was nothing compared to this, as he almost fell against the doorframe, his hand bracing his weight, but his face looking weary, weak, and pained.

"You've travelled in time," whispered Hermione, as if the ideas turned and clicked together in her mind at the same time as the words left her mouth. "You've time travelled," she said again, looking at Mr. Malfoy with wide eyes, despite hating all of his guts times infinity, because it was just that astounding.

Lucius, for his part, only stared back at her breathlessly, as if the slow, screeching turn of gears and cogs in his mind were revolting against processing this clear but unwanted conclusion. After a moment, he blinked hard and looked at the hand which still braced him against the doorframe.

"And Narcissa…?" he breathed as a question, his eyes trained on his own hand, as if something in him was afraid to ask, didn't want to know, probably didn't want to ask Hermione of all people, but had to know, and had to know now.

Hermione was suddenly hit with the feeling that she really didn't want to have to answer this question, and despite loathing Mr. Malfoy with all the loathings of a thousand burning loathings, there were limits to her loathing and she wasn't a cruel person, after all. Her hesitation caused him to look at her, something heavy in his eyes.

Compelled, she said, "She's dead."

She was taking the band-aid route, not that Mr. Malfoy would know what a band-aid was, but one swift blow would hopefully take some of the sting out. His breath caught, and he held it, and then exhaled in a swift puff. Slow blink. Mr. Malfoy was a bastion of control, Hermione had to hand it to him.

"And Draco?" he asked her, soberness in his gaze.

"He's alive," replied Hermione, relieved to give some good news. Or fair news. It was really only good news on the surface, since Draco had lived his life in a psychiatric ward, but… Hermione took it and ran with it because Lucius' relieved sigh relieved her as well, somehow.

"When did she die?" he asked.

"Shortly after you did," replied Hermione, and then: "Well, you didn't die, but everyone thought you did, and it was just a few weeks afterward, I think." Now she was starting to babble stupidly, but she couldn't help it. "And I have been thinking about it, and nothing sits right about her death because the wards should have stopped anyone who came in to attack her, since they apprehended her afterwards and all, and I wonder if it was-"

"Please stop," said Lucius, holding up a hand. He looked tired. Hermione was embarrassed. "Not now," he said, and brushed past her down the hall without another word.

And just like that, Lucius Malfoy had made her feel like a stupid, mannerless, lesser human. It made her feel very indignant, but the man had just, in a way, lost his wife. She couldn't give him a piece of her mind, not like this.

She found Luna downstairs, in the dining room, studying the lingering magic from the whatever-it-was that happened to produce Lucius Malfoy.

"It's definitely house magic," said Luna.

"Of course it is," said Hermione, resigning herself to the fact that anything that happens here is because of the stinking house.

"Did you ask Mr. Malfoy about it? Did he do this?"

"I don't think it was on purpose," said Hermione. "He seemed surprised by the, um, year."

"Maybe this wasn't his intended result," said Luna. "But maybe he was doing something when it happened. Did he say?"

"I didn't really ask," replied Hermione, again feeling kind of stupid.

"Oh," said Luna. "Maybe we should ask him."

"Maybe…"

Hermione didn't look forward to talking to Lucius again, but it was clear there were questions that needed asking.

"Would you do that so I can study this before all the magic residue is gone?" asked Luna, and Hermione's fate was sealed.

Finding where Lucius Malfoy had gone in all of Malfoy Manor wasn't an easy task, and Hermione wasn't even sure she wanted to find him. Under the best of circumstances, probing for answers from a man who had just been given very bad news would be unpleasant. Under these particular Malfoy-esque circumstances, Hermione found herself very much a procrastinator. She wandered purposelessly from room to room, taking in the grand, dusty splendor of delightful days past and mournful days present. It was her fortune that Lucius was nowhere to be found in any of the rooms.

Just as she was turning back to return to Luna empty-handed, she passed a large window overlooking the side-grounds of the manor which held the graveyard of Malfoy, and at present, the living Malfoy standing beside a miniature stone monolith.

She gazed out for a moment, taking in the drizzle (it looked very unpleasant) and the mud (she was wearing flats, curse it all) and the silent, motionless figure of Lucius Malfoy (forbidding). She almost moved on and went to tell Luna she didn't find Lucius. Almost. It would have been easy, but Hermione never let herself off easy, and she kind of hated herself for that. Heaving a deep sigh, she went to find the way out to the side-grounds.

Her footsteps felt too loud as she approached Lucius by the grave of Narcissa Malfoy. He made no indication he had noticed her, and why not? She felt like an elephant with the noise her steps were making on the gravel path. It was the most effective thing he could do to make her feel even more like a total heel. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or if it was so ingrained in his upbringing that it came as second-nature. As she stopped nearby, with blessedly no more footstep noises to make, he ignored her completely and she was forced to take in the mournful scene.

To say it was drizzling wasn't completely accurate; it was misting, and further on, as the Malfoy grounds fell into rolling hills, puffs of fog clung in the hollows, moving slowly like tepid ghosts against the just-budding leaves of grass in spring green. Everything was grey and green, like it is in earliest spring, and waiting to erupt into riotous sun-sparkled life, but not yet. Now it would be cool and misty and uncomfortable, because it wasn't time.

Lucius had the presence of mind to put on a dark cloak before coming out here, and his hair had been tied back in a neat queue. He made a fine statue, with his stupid good-looking face, as he stood over Narcissa's grave, and he belonged here, and Hermione could almost imagine he would never move again, and the graveyard would be forever shrouded in mist and fog, and the whole scene would forever spell out "melancholy".

She had to interrupt him, but she didn't want to. It was enough. She turned to leave, plebeian elephant steps in gravel and all.

"Miss Granger," said Lucius.

She stopped suddenly, so surprised by his voice that she forgot to be annoyed at the strain he was putting her through.

"Yes?" she asked, turning to find he was looking at her with a guileless grief-stricken face.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

She was pretty sure he didn't mean it existentially.

"I'm afraid I don't know," she replied, and as disappointment clouded his features, she quickly went on,"But I mean to find out."

Oh, good grief, was she so still a Gryffindor that she had to protect/help/aid/rescue everyone, even him? She wanted to poke herself in the eye. Still, she did mean to find out, because that's what she did: find out stuff.

Lucius looked at her critically.

"Why?" he asked.

He didn't trust her?! How very _dare_ he!

"Because it doesn't make sense," she replied.

"No, it doesn't, but how does it concern you?" he asked. Politely. Politely!

Hermione looked back towards the house, then said to Lucius: "Luna thinks the manor wants us to help you."

That sounded really stupid when she said it out loud, but she stood her ground, inwardly hoping he wouldn't just burst out laughing at her. But of course he'd never do that. He would silently label her a lunatic in his head and brush her off, to never speak with her again. Like all horrible people do.

Lucius, in actuality, did neither of those things. For a while, he seemed to be turning things over in his mind. His hand landed flat on the top of Narcissa's grave as he gave it a brief gaze, and then he let out a soft sigh that blended into the foggy grey-green landscape like just another shrouded mist.

He glanced at her.

"The house told you that, did it?" he said.

Hermione stood with Gryffindorian determination and said, "Yes."

She was actually not totally sure about the house thing, but something gripped her. Something _heroic_. She wouldn't drop her gaze from his.

"Very well," he said imperiously, giving her a once-over measuring-up glance. "You may assist me."

It really took everything she had not to take off her shoe and throw it at his head.


	3. The Polyjuice Formula

_Disclaimer: Not mine, J.K.R.'s _

_Dear Reviewers: Thank you for taking the time to read &amp; leave a few words 3_

_Notes: What is this rambling piece of work and why does it exist, and also what is the point of these chapter notes but to call attention to my glaring inadequacies as a writer? Enjoy!_

-oOo-

"Luna, Luna!"

Hermione ran into the Grand Malfoy Dining Room feeling breathless and excited, because she'd accomplished something! Sort of. Luna looked up from the corner into which she was pointing her wand. She looked completely nonplussed, despite Hermione's excitement. Classic Luna.

"You asked Mr. Malfoy?" asked Luna.

Hermione paused.

"Well, no…"

Fortunately, at precisely that moment, Mr. Malfoy followed Hermione into the Grand Malfoy Dining Room (without a table), and Hermione's feelings of inadequacy were replaced with a different, more unexpected triumph.

"Mr. Malfoy is going to work with us to find out what happened," said Hermione, presenting Lucius with her hands and a smile. Lucius didn't seem impressed, but Luna looked pleased as she turned her attention to Lucius.

"Your house is very powerful, Mr. Malfoy," said Luna.

Lucius looked pretty smug about it.

"Too powerful, maybe?" asked Luna, in a way that came across as totally guileless. But it made Hermione smirk, she couldn't help it.

Lucius drew a short breath, and then ceded without total commitment: "Perhaps."

He glanced around the room.

"I would like to speak with Draco," he said to Hermione, in a commanding sort of way. Hermione inwardly panicked a little.

"Ah," said Hermione. "That will be difficult."

Lucius tilted his head and asked slowly, "Why?"

Hermione paused.

"He's in St. Mungo's psychiatric ward," said Luna, somehow saying it easily, as if that's normal.

Lucius responded by setting his jaw and looking away for a moment. He seemed to take in the dining room while processing something of great intensity, but with the practice and skill of a fire-breather swallowing in a flaming torch. After a moment, his voice was almost entirely normal as he said, "Well then, I must see him anyway."

"Right, well, maybe," said Luna.

Lucius gave her a look that meant he was perplexed by her not-immediate-agreement.

"You go out there and the gig is up, Mr. Malfoy," said Luna.

Lucius continued to stare at her for clarification, but Hermione knew what Luna was getting at.

"Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione, stepping in. "We don't know what happened to you, or your wife, or Draco. We don't know if it was all a sheer accident, or if, as I believe, it was an elaborate setup-"

"An elaborate setup?" asked Lucius, whose question reflected both surprise at the possibility and instantly charged outrage at the possibility. "And if so, we don't know who might have been the mind behind it."

"Or on which side," said Hermione.

"You Malfoys really made a lot of enemies," remarked Luna.

"I suppose," replied Lucius.

"It really could be anyone," said Luna.

"It's possible," said Lucius, slightly annoyed.

"I mean, the entire wizarding world hated you," continued Luna, oblivious.

Lucius remained quiet at this point, but was perhaps seething.

"Ah, well, Mr. Malfoy, what Luna is saying is that the list of suspects is … probably long, and we don't really know how deep this thing runs and well, maybe, with luck, it's just all a coincidence after all?" Hermione finished lamely with a weak smile, and began to feel stupid as Lucius continued to stare at both she and Luna as if he couldn't believe this is what he had been left with. She cleared her throat.

"That said, it is a good idea that you do not make your presence known just yet… not until I've had a chance to do some investigating," said Hermione.

Lucius lifted his chin slightly.

"Could the two of you be reasonably expected to visit my son for any purpose?" he asked.

Hermione considered.

"We might visit him under the guise of asking after some of the books we've come to recover," replied Hermione, wondering what Lucius might be getting at.

"Ah, very good," said Lucius, as if everything was decided. Hermione shared a confused glance with Luna. "Then you and I shall visit him, Miss Granger."

Hermione paused before replying, "Shall we?"

"Indeed," he said. "And I shall be Miss Lovegood."

"Mrs. Longbottom," said Luna.

Lucius paused, and then stared at Luna.

"Wait, do you mean-" began Hermione.

"Mrs. Longbottom," repaired Lucius. "shall be kind enough to allow me to impersonate her using the Polyjuice formula."

"You mean Polyjuice Potion, right?" asked Hermione, finding Lucius' wording a bit silly.

"Oh, whatever," replied Lucius, as if not caring to be bothered with such semantics, but which reduced Hermione's faith in his ability to safely brew said "formula".

"So… you know how to make it?" Hermione inquired.

Lucius' confidence paused - how telling was the pause!

"Yes," he said at last, as if _of course_ he knew how to do everything ever, and Hermione almost laughed.

"I have a little experience," said Hermione. "Maybe I can help?"

"As you wish," replied Lucius, elusive as a cat.

And that was final.

"Wait, you're going to impersonate me at the asylum?" asked Luna.

Hermione and Lucius both turned to look at Luna as if she must have forgotten to pay attention to _anything_.

Later, in the Somewhat-Less-Than-Grand-But-Sufficiently-Foreboding Malfoy Potion Brewing Dungeon, Mr. Malfoy began to acquaint Hermione with the equipment. Though old and dusty, the equipment was sound, as wizarding equipment was usually built to last generations, especially cauldrons. The fine, aged seasoning of certain cauldrons fetched high value for special brewing properties imbued therein, and this was certainly true for the Malfoy family cauldron. It was a well seasoned piece of iron if Hermione had ever seen one. She admired it openly.

"It would be difficult to match the depth and quality of potions brewed in this particular cauldron," said Lucius as he showcased the lump of blackened iron as if it were a priceless work of art. To Hermione, though, it _was_ a priceless work of art.

"I will love working with this cauldron, Mr. Malfoy!" said Hermione, unable to contain her enthusiasm. She wasn't an expert at potions in school, but had gained skill and appreciation over the intervening years. Lucius stepped closer to the cauldron in a protective gesture.

"Yes, but ruin the seasoning and I'll kill you," he said, but upon seeing what must have been Hermione's face pale suddenly, he added," Well, not really _kill_ you, Miss Granger, it's a turn of phrase, obviously."

Hermione laughed nervously.

"No, I'm not going to kill you," finished Lucius, seeming a bit put out that he had to clarify so obtusely.

"Just be careful with it," he said, turning away in irritation. Hermione caught up to him.

"Oh, I will," she said, smiling for some reason. She was being too congenial for her own conscience to abide, so she dropped the smile.

Lucius glanced at her.

"You know, I know a fellow who makes Polyjuice," he said.

"Would he sell to Luna or myself?" asked Hermione.

"No," said Lucius.

"Do you want to make yourself known to this fellow?" asked Hermione.

Lucius cringed and turned away again. He paced along a long table and turned back, clearly frustrated.

"It takes a long time to make this potion… too long," he said.

"A month, usually."

"Yes, that much. Too much," he said.

"How can that be too much when you've been gone seventeen years already?"

Lucius exhaled and set himself to pacing again. He reminded her of a lion she once observed pacing in a cage. It, too, let out the occasional frustrated exhale during its pacing.

"Alright, fine," said Hermione. "Maybe I can procure some somehow."

For some reason she felt defeated and also completely clueless as to where she was going to procure Polyjuice Potion.

Lucius gave her an appraising look.

"But until then," she said, "I'm going to work on making it."

Lucius blinked.

"Do you have any decent potion books?" she asked, knowing he did, but wanting to goad him for some reason.

His brow crinkled just like she wanted, and she felt a small tinge of satisfaction. "Of course we do," said he, then adding: "In the library."

"Very good," she said, and they both stood in place for a very long moment. Too long. She felt like Lucius should be gracious enough to get the spellbooks for her, and, clearly, Lucius felt it was beneath him to fetch them. The moment tensed until Lucius looked around.

"What happened to the house elves?" he asked. Her brow creased in response, and she briefly wondered if that's what he wanted. Were they in some kind of subtle war?

"I can't say, as I have never handled, nor paid much attention to, your estate," replied Hermione.

"Well, I should say I need at least three," he said. "The place is a mess and it needs a decent cleaning. At the very least, the manor is too big for us to go fetching things ourselves all the time."

"Wouldn't it be decent exercise?" asked Hermione.

"It would be a waste of time!" replied Lucius.

"For the house elves? Or just you?"

Lucius made an exasperated noise and turned away as if Hermione was being completely unreasonable. He made for the dungeon door, but Hermione just couldn't leave him alone. She caught up to him as he reached the threshold.

"In all honesty, Mr. Malfoy, I don't think we could get away with bringing in three house elves just for the purpose of Luna and I recovering ancient books," she said, and she almost touched his arm again, but didn't. He stopped, anyway, to give her his attention.

She relented a bit and said, "We might be able to get one for you."

He raised an eyebrow, apparently sensing she was going to add stipulations.

"But you'll have to pay him," she said.

Lucius looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. Tenseness rolled off of him in waves as he replied, "Of course."

His retreat left her in the dungeon with the scent of a strange spice.

-oOo-

He did end up fetching the book for her, and maybe he seemed a little enlivened by the exercise.

"Miss Granger, what are you doing?" he asked her, probably because she was magically affixing a large corkboard to one of the dungeon walls. That was exactly the question she had _hoped_ he would ask, because then she could say this:

"I'm making an evidence wall," she said, almost mystically, if that sentence can ever be uttered mystically.

Lucius cleared his throat in response, and then repeated it more slowly. "Miss Granger," he said, "What are you doing?"

Apparently the sentence "I'm making an evidence wall" isn't acceptable in pureblood magical families. She exhaled wearily.

"Fine," she clipped. "We are going to put what we know on this board, and what we are looking for, and when we find out stuff, we'll put it in the appropriate places until we figure out what it is we want to know."

"Couldn't you just write it down in a book?" he asked, clearly disenchanted with the proposed process. "And where on earth did you find that corkboard?"

"Mr. Malfoy," she said (as the pure voice of reason), "Surely you can see that this system has a few advantages over just _writing in a book_. For one, you and I can peruse and consider it at the same time. In fact, you, I, and Luna, and _even whatever house elf we come up with_ could do it, all at once! That means we can all be thinking about solutions at the same time, speeding up the solving process. Two, we can put everything on one 'page', so to speak."

She gestured towards the length of the corkboard, and then glanced at Lucius to gauge if he was being convinced or not. Although she didn't know why she should have to convince Lucius to use her methods, she was doing him a _favor, _after all. A medium-large favor!

Lucius sniffed, glanced over the corkboard, and then said: "Well. It's an ugly thing, but I suppose that can't be helped."

"Yes, well, no gain can come without suffering," she said indulgently, and then turned away so he couldn't see her eyes rolling in a most plebeian manner. She flopped open one of the books he'd brought, as it sat with the others on a nearby table. Books were good. Yay books. Too bad she couldn't focus enough to read the words, yet.

She heard Lucius shift.

"The first thing we know is that I've travelled through time," his voice said. She turned to look at him and he was at another table, writing on a scrap of parchment. Immediately intrigued, she approached as he held the paper out to her, which said "Lucius Malfoy - 17 years into the future". She whipped out her wand and whisked the sheet onto the board, pinning it there with magic.

"So what we have is _who_ and _what,_" said Hermione as she and Lucius approached the board. "And we want to know-"

"How," replied Lucius. "How did I do it? Did _I _do it? Or did someone else?"

"Or something else," said Hermione, highly suspecting the manor.

"And so then the question would be _why_?" he said. "Wouldn't it?"

He looked at Hermione as he was fully engrossed in the inquiry, so she couldn't help but smile at him and say, "Exactly."

"But we're getting ahead of ourselves," she said. "We need to start with collecting information on who or what did it, and how."

Lucius exhaled quietly, and Hermione suspected he was feeling impatient.

"Luna's working on that right now, Mr. Malfoy," she said to him, as assurance.

"Yes, I know," murmured Lucius, looking unhappy. Why, when all she knew of this man, did it displease her so to see him unhappy like this?

Hermione supposed it had something to do with why he was unhappy. He was unhappy due to his family being torn apart, and that was admirable in any man, _even_ Lucius Malfoy. Hermione tried to make some semblance of peace with herself with that logic. He loved his family, and that meant there had to be some good in him, didn't it? She still felt like a jumble of mismatched motives, so she decided to leave him to his silence and she went back to the potion books.

"Do you happen to have any fluxweed?" she asked after a moment, as she ran her finger down the page which held the potion recipe of requirement.

"How should I know?" he asked askance.

Hermione found herself laughing at her own stupidity.

"Well then, it looks as if I will be shopping tonight," she said.

"No, no," he said, and she looked at him curiously. "As much as I trust your ability to brew this potion, Miss Granger," (she doubted trust was actually involved by the sound of his voice) "It is, firstly, a very difficult potion to make, and, secondly, if brewed decently by an amateur it is generally not very potent, meaning: I would turn back into myself halfway through our visit. I would like to have as much time as possible, Miss Granger, with my son."

"Then I suppose I will be shopping at your shady potion dealer friend's questionable location?" she stabbed.

"I will go with you, disguised."

"You're really into disguises, Mr. Malfoy."

"Only when the situation warrants."

If Hermione were to be brutally honest with herself, the whole affair actually sounded kind of exciting. It definitely wasn't _boring_.

"Okay, subterfuge it is," she said, even somewhat merrily.

Lucius just looked serious.

Hermione cleared her throat and tried to look serious, too.

-oOo-

_**Thanks for reading! **_


	4. Subterfuge

_**Disclaimer: Stuff, no claim, J.K.R. wins all**_

**_Dear Readers, thank you for your kind reviews!_**

**_Note: This story is becoming delightful to write, while at first I wasn't sure about how to get Lucius and Hermione to relate to each other on a human level, it seems to be working out (or will work out eventually) just fine and is 100% enjoyable!_**

CHAPTER FOUR: SUBTERFUGE

"What a fascinating house you have, Mr. Malfoy," said Luna, as Hermione and Lucius returned to her in the dining room.

"Thank you," replied Lucius, "But I suppose it no longer belongs to me."

"Ah, it has been bequeathed to Draco," said Hermione.

"Legally," rejoined Lucius. Hermione had little doubt the house actually still belonged to Lucius in a more tactile and magical way.

"We're going to buy a potion," Hermione announced to Luna, who replied with a doubtful look.

"Are you?" she asked vaguely, and then, before Hermione could explain further, Luna went on: "There's something else we need to deal with, and that is Mr. Malfoy's keeping. Staying here would probably be very unpleasant, considering there is no food or water and everything is old, dusty, and full of spiders. Since I have a family to deal with, I think you should keep him."

This was not a situation in which Hermione had ever supposed she would be placed, and therefore, for a long moment, she was able only to stand before Luna with her mouth wide open.

"I'm not a pet," stated Lucius, breaking Hermione's silence.

"No, but do you want to stay here?" asked Luna.

"Yes, with a few house elves for assistance," he replied.

"I said we can get you one," Hermione said to him, slight annoyance tinging her perspective. His glance revealed the same in his eyes.

"With an elf, singular, for assistance," he related, dragging his eyes away from Hermione.

"But we can't get it until tomorrow," added Hermione, who noticed a faint stiffening in Lucius' shoulders.

"You have to eat," said Luna. "And sleep, and there's working plumbing to consider."

Lucius sighed, most likely wondering how it had come to this, but Hermione saw Luna's wisdom or foresight, or whatever it was.

"It would be the safest situation for you to stay with me," said Hermione, while some part in the back of her mind screamed at her for saying those words to Lucius Malfoy in that particular order,"But if you want, we could let you a room somewhere under disguise. It wouldn't be a great situation, but you would have more privacy, I guess. We would have to be more careful, and due to logistics there would be less time for discussing the problem and fixing it, and-"

"Oh for Merlin's sake, it's just for one night," he said, cutting her off. "As long as you don't plan on murdering me, I'm sure your dwelling will suffice and will be greatly appreciated."

It looked very difficult for him to show appreciation, but there was a tinge of it.

"I suppose we can procure the potion on the way?" she asked.

"Probably," he said, seeming unhappy again. "I'm going to see if there's any spare laundry left worth taking."

After Lucius' moody exit, Lune looked at Hermione and smiled.

"That went well," she said.

Hermione only chortled.

"So what have you figured out?" asked Hermione.

"I don't know," said Luna. "The house has a strong will and is more determined to preserve its people than any I've ever seen."

"Hunh," said Hermione, glancing around at the house. It seemed disused, but solid. "What did you find out about the spell that brought Mr. Malfoy here?"

"It's old magic," said Luna.

"Old magic? Really?"

"Nah, I just always wanted to say that," said Luna. "Isn't all magic old, and new, and in-between?"

Hermione grinned.

"It's just regular magic, but complicated," said Luna. "I feel like there are too many parts I don't understand the meaning of, or how they relate to each other. Maybe you can help me make some sense of it?"

"I'll do my best!" said Hermione, delighted.

"You still haven't asked Mr. Malfoy about what he was doing when he was brought here, have you?" asked Luna.

Hermione, remembering, became deflated.

-oOo-

Some time later, Lucius reemerged from the upper rooms with a leather shoulder bag of exceedingly fine, if aged, make. He was also wearing an exceptionally shrouding cloak, and, with his hair tied back as it was, it rendered him very indistinguishable.

"That looks perfect for incognito shopping," remarked Luna.

"It was my aim," replied Lucius airily.

"It will start getting dark soon, so I suppose we had better call it a day," said Hermione, kind of regretting what 'calling it a day' meant for her on this particular day. It meant facing an awkward and possibly difficult shopping experience with Lucius Malfoy, and then the far, far more awkward and unsettling situation of having him stay at her home. Her home was probably painfully inadequate in his estimation, and she wasn't looking forward to her every nook and cranny being judged by him. At all.

At least she was pretty sure he didn't mean her any sort of harm. He seemed pretty harmless, actually. Well, harmless if he wanted to stay on your good side for selfish reasons.

"Tomorrow, with your permission, Mr. Malfoy, I will go through your library for information that might help us," said Hermione.

"You have my permission as soon as you have procured a house elf for my assistance," replied Lucius, and the tone of his voice made Hermione want to shove him out of the room. She didn't, though.

"Of course," said Hermione, through her teeth. "Shall we depart?"

As the three of them strode through the derelict gardens of Malfoy Manor, the house loomed behind them like a monstrous cat, waiting and watching, and not betraying anything. Hermione felt it behind her, full of knowing. It made her nervous as she left.

"Mr. Malfoy," she ventured as they passed through the gate.

"Yes?" he replied.

She glanced at him in confidence. "Do you ever feel like your house is… um… alive?" she asked.

His return glance seemed almost amused, and he smiled in a very imperious Malfoy-esque way.

"Sentient, yes."

Hermione looked at Luna for her opinion, but she wasn't even listening and seemed to have forgotten the whole adventure happened, today.

"I wonder what Neville has made for dinner?" she asked dreamily.

Hermione, who could not at the moment feign interest in Luna's delicious impending dinner made by a very attractive and doting husband, said loudly, "Well, time to apparate! Take my arm, Mr. Malfoy."

He probably wasn't pleased she was so blatantly demanding, but she didn't presently care and, after waiting long enough, he did take her arm. She apparated.

Her apparation skill was excellent, so at least there was that.

It was a strange sensation, though, being flung, dreamlike, through space and time, all the while knowing that Lucius Malfoy, whom Hermione mostly hated, clung to her arm for safekeeping.

As they landed, reality landed with them, and they glanced at each other.

"Diagon Alley," informed Hermione.

"We'll need Knockturn," he said with brevity.

It was late afternoon in Diagon Alley, which meant shopping and customers and the hustle and bustle were still in full force, which also meant there were a lot of eyes and ears. Though Lucius was still hidden nicely in his cloak, both he and Hermione moved closer to keep their voices unheard.

Hermione sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that," she said softly.

There was something like a smirk hidden deep in the recesses of his cloak hood. "Don't worry," he said to her, his voice with more mocking in it than she liked, "I'll protect you."

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, sharp in return, but he held out his arm and commanded, "Take my arm, Miss Granger."

As her eyes narrowed, he moved closer to murmur: "Turnabout is fair play."

"And for Merlin's sake, put your hood up," he added, pulling her along with his arm towards the Lousiest Alley of Them All.

Knockturn was how she'd always remembered it, all black grime and oppressive, claustrophobic angles, oozing an unexplained fog which made things both indistinct and more frightening, and as she stepped downward step by shallow step into the alley's bowels, she shifted closer into the arm of Lucius Malfoy, whom she noticed had a hand in his pocket.

"Whose wand do you have?" she asked him.

"What do you mean 'whose wand'?" he asked, seeming irritated by the question.

"It surely isn't yours," she said. "Yours was broken by Voldemort."

Lucius flinched a little, and then glanced at her.

"It's Narcissa's," he said. Then after a moment he went on, "I was using it when…"

"When what?" asked Hermione.

"Stop asking me questions," he replied shortly.

"I have to ask you questions if I'm ever to figure out what happened!" replied Hermione.

"Then just -" he said, and then paused, seeming to look for words to say. "Don't ask questions in that way."

"In what way?" asked Hermione.

"Like that!" he replied, turning to face her, their progress in Knockturn Alley halted.

"Mr. Malfoy, I-"

"Don't say my name out here like that, you foolish girl," he seethed.

"I'm not a girl," she informed him, affronted.

"And yet you act like one," he replied.

She pushed him.

"You are the most ungrateful, unpleasant person I've ever met!" said she.

"It is unfortunate that you've grown to be so mannerless and rude," he replied smoothly (which only increased her ire). "You had potential."

"Oh, don't pretend you ever thought that! You always saw me as mannerless and rude and useless because of who my parents happened to be, no matter how accomplished I became or how clever I might be!" she replied, finding upon making her statement, she was out of breath. "You always have and always will find me to be inferior, so don't pretend it could ever be different, because it can't."

She suddenly felt horribly, deeply, agonizingly miserable. To make matters worse, she was standing in the middle of Knockturn Alley with the last person in the world she wanted to be near. The biggest problem was, however, that she was the only person in the world who could help this last person in the world she wanted to be near, and she was really bad at abandonment. It wasn't a thing she was wired to do.

"Miss Granger," he whispered, quiet enough that none of the highly questionable passers-by could hear or recognize the name. He came very close and began to speak quietly. "Please understand that it is difficult for me to answer questions about what has happened because this morning, in an instant, I have lost everything that is dear to me."

Hermione suddenly felt terrible for a different reason.

"Perhaps I react to such blunt questioning by lashing out, only because it is…" he said, then cleared his throat to finish. "Difficult."

She touched his arm and he didn't pull away.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said to him, "I will try to ask questions more delicately."

She realized she'd clenched the fabric of his sleeve in her fist due to the strain of parley with her mortal enemy.

"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it.

He observed her for a while and then, with a nod, he said, "Let's get the potion. We can talk later."

At that moment, her paradigm was shifted, and she suddenly felt as if they had found common ground, or vague understanding, and it was strange, weird, bizarre, and as a result she felt a sense of vertigo and the feeling one gets when the seasons change in one day. Who was Lucius Malfoy? Was he, in truth, a horrible, horrible person? Was he not really that horrible at all? Was he just a guy who'd made bad choices? Why did he make the choices he made? Questions started spiraling through her mind faster than she could digest them and it made her feel dizzy.

"Miss Granger, are you alright?" he asked her, as she realized she'd leaned on his arm a little too much as they were walking and her mind had barraged itself with questions. He'd brought his other hand up to steady her and she felt incredibly embarrassed.

"Yes," she said, straightening and cursing herself, "Yes, I'm fine. Let's go."

Diagon Alley's sister store to Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary was decidedly more airy and far less claustrophobic than the Knockturn Alley venue, where aisles of grotesquerie and the inexplicable wound snake-like through a shop that defied all reasonable shape, and always seemed less than four feet wide yet abundant. The variety of merchandise, Hermione had to admit, was impressive, even if she didn't know what most of it was. As the back counter (and the dubious-looking he who tended the shop) came into view, Lucius's hand gripped her elbow from behind and she heard his low whisper:

"Tell him Nero sent you."

It was almost funny, the strangeness of it all. Hermione managed to suppress a nervous laugh, but barely, and so when the shopkeep laid eyes on her cloaked form, he probably thought she was executing a perfectly reasonable smirk, considering what she was pretending to be (a miscreant).

"Nero sent me," she said with utter seriousness, or at least tried.

The shopkeep's eyebrows raised. Or at least she thought it was his eyebrows. He kind of only had one, which extended across his entire brow, each coarse bristle fully distinguishable from the next and then blending into temple and sideburn and face whiskers. The man was really hairy and it was gross and she decided to stop thinking about it.

"I haven't heard that name in a very long time," said he.

Hermione lifted her chin and asked, "So what?"

The shopkeeper laughed, then turned an inquisitive, if loamy, eye on her. "Yeah," he said. "So what."

"So I'm looking for a potion," she said.

"S'long as you've got the gold, lady," he said. "And you ain't setting Nero on me."

He smiled and she suffered the misfortune of a generous view of his teeth, but she felt the scales of subtle power shift in her favor.

"Polyjuice, well-brewed," she ordered.

The sound of gold chinking on the counter next to her drew both of their attentions. There, though he was becloaked beyond all recognition, was Lucius' fine white hand, but only for a moment before it was gone, with a neat stack of shimmering galleons left in its wake. Lucius receded away into the shop like a shadowed wraith.

Hermione glanced at the shopkeep to gauge his suspicion, but he only looked amused.

"Yeah, see all types here, we do," he said, chuckling as he shuffled through a curtain to rifle noisily in the back. "I ain't askin'!" Hermione heard him call from the back around sounds of glass chinking and things breaking. "S'better fer business, ya see!"

Hermione heaved a quick sigh and just wanted the whole business over with. She looked around for Lucius, and saw him inspecting the shimmering, magical contents of an aisle. It sounded like something large fell over in the back and she wondered if the shopkeep was injured until the curtain burst open and the keeper walked (with a slight limp) back to the counter carrying a triumphant, tiny bottle of potion aloft.

"Yeah, this'll do yeh," he said, handing it over.

Hermione inspected it, and it looked like mud, which she supposed it should, considering they hadn't added Luna hair yet.

"That'll be," the shopkeep glanced at the stack of galleons, "eight galleons."

Shocking that the price was exactly how many galleons were sitting on the counter.

"Three," said Hermione, her chin lifted.

The shopkeep laughed at her, then gave her a sour look. "Seven, if yeh want to be runnin' me out of business."

"Three," said Hermione.

He squinted at her.

"I can make this myself, you know," she said.

"Five," he said.

"Four," she said.

"Fine," he said, irritated. "Four! Now get out of my shop and tell Nero he's a cheapskate!"

Outside the shop, as she and Lucius reconvened, she spied a hint of a smile within his shroud.

"Will you take my arm, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, doing so.

_**Oh, Mr. Malfoy. **_

_**Thanks for reading! **_


	5. Hermione's Flat

CHAPTER FIVE: HERMIONE'S FLAT

There was a moment of relaxation as Lucius and Hermione poofed into existence in the middle of her flat; it was the feeling of being no longer watched, of being no longer anxious about being recognized, and of not knowing to what being recognized might lead. They both visibly relaxed, if subtly, about the shoulders and in the relieving themselves of hoods. Shortly after that moment, however, Hermione tensed again, as her flat wasn't the cleanest place in the world. She liked to read books, not dust end tables. She didn't know this morning when she left that Lucius "Pureblood Snob-Face" Malfoy was going to be staying in her home.

"So," said Lucius, glancing around at the diminutive place.

"Welcome to my home. Please ignore the many small imperfections that fill me with shame," said Hermione with a sigh.

"You really like books, don't you?" he asked, studying a particularly well-balanced stack on the coffee table.

"I do," she said, with a wry smile. "Anyway, you're probably hungry. I know I'm famished."

She quickly abandoned Lucius in the living room, escaping to the kitchen. It was more than she wanted to deal with, this person in her house, sifting through her _books_, noticing her _things. _As she pulled out the eggs and a frying pan (for breakfast was about all that was going to be produced from her scant larder tonight), it was weirdly personal and at the same time felt otherworldly, as he was the enemy for so long all those years ago, and for him it hadn't been all those years ago. For him, he had just barely defected from the dark side over to the light in the last battle. He had just barely been present when she and Ron were captured in Malfoy Manor, and he had just stood by while his sister-in-law had _Crucio'd_ her. He had just spent time in Azkaban for invading the Ministry, he'd just fought against Harry and her and Neville and everyone else in the Ministry to save the Prophecy. He'd just, only a few years past for him, treated her like a worm, unworthy of the sole of his boot. She wondered why he was so civil now. She wondered why _she_ was being so civil to _him. _Maybe he wondered that, too. Maybe he'd had a lot of time to think in Azkaban. Time to think _hard. _

She heard nothing from him all the while she was cooking, and that gave her time to actually make some kind of table setting and create something somewhat reasonable for their supper. Why she bothered and didn't just throw the eggs at him, she didn't know, but she finished and went to see what he was doing.

He was sitting peaceably on the couch, reading one of her books. She leaned against the doorframe and sighed, which caused him to look up.

"I hope you don't mind breakfast for dinner," she said.

"I don't," he replied.

His compliance made her feel weird.

At breakfast-dinner, she decided to try _delicate_ questioning.

"Mr. Malfoy," she ventured.

"Yes?"

"May I ask what you were doing at the time you time-traveled?" she asked, hoping that didn't seem callous.

"I was erecting wards on the Manor," he said, not seeming to mind her question at all. "There had been an increase in Death Eater attacks on the protections surrounding the Manor, and an increase in creativity in those attacks. I was trying to do the best I could to reduce the risk of invasion by putting up wards that covered the most possible attack types."

"Clearly a person cannot possibly place wards that can account for any sort of attack that could happen," he went on. "The ones that wanted us dead, and I'm not even sure if it was just one group of people or more than one that did, used several methods to try to break through, one being sending Muggles in, so the wards would detect no magic."

"Is that why you had the ward up that affected me?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," he said. "It causes extreme discomfort and eventual agony for anyone who is born of total Muggle blood."

"It's effective, I suppose," said Hermione, still disliking it.

"But easily thwarted, it seems," he said to her.

"And that's why you asked me how I got around it," said Hermione. "Because you've been working on perfecting your wards for some time, now. Well, in the past. But for you, some time, now."

Hermione sighed and said, "It's so weird that you've just skipped seventeen years."

"Yes, I suppose it is… that," he replied uncertainly. "Among other things. Like tragic."

Hermione felt embarrassed. Why was she so bad at this?

"Ask me something else," offered Lucius. "I can see questions filling your mind, ready to kill you at any moment."

"Yes, but I'm trying to be delicate about it," said Hermione.

"It's alright, go on," he said. "I'm ready for them, now."

"Why are you so _civil_?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well cut to the chase, Miss Granger," he replied with something of a laugh. "But I might ask you the same thing."

Lucius Malfoy proceeded to spread jam on toast in a very docile manner.

"Because you need me," she said, leaving him subtly startled. "And I can't abandon someone, anyone who is relying on me for help."

"I see," he stated impartially.

"And also," she said, more confidentially, as if there was anyone else who could overhear, "It's kind of fascinating, and tragic, yes, but fascinating, Mr. Malfoy, as you've changed so much since I first knew you, or have you? I don't even know what to think. Was the Mr. Malfoy I met at first the real you? _Is_ there a real you?"

"You're very blunt, aren't you?" he replied.

"You asked," said Hermione, straightening and spearing a piece of egg. "So I gave you answers."

"I am civil because that is what I do," he said, and then he took a bite of toast, because that was his full answer.

"You weren't civil when you attacked us at the Ministry," said Hermione.

"You weren't the right people toward which to be civil at the time," replied Lucius.

Hermione's jaw gaped.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she said, perhaps a bit loudly.

"Yes?" he asked, as if everything he said was always perfectly reasonable.

"How do you judge who is the right person toward which to be civil at any given time?" she asked.

"One does the best one can," he said before admitting, "But on occasion one judges poorly." She had to agree, though it seemed like an infinite understatement.

"You're doing the dishes," she told him, and she got up and left him to clean up.

-oOo-

In truth, despite a number of wards and a pretty decent physical lock on her bedroom door, Hermione slept terribly. Sleeping peaceably just wasn't something she could do all the while knowing Lucius Malfoy was on the other side of the door, sleeping or reading or dwelling or _whatever_ almost within arms' length. Reasonably, she knew he wasn't out to destroy her. Factually, she knew he needed her and could have no ulterior motives at this time… for how could he? He had no allies, no friends, not even any family. He didn't even have a cause, except the cause of what remained of his family: his mad son, driven mad by a mystery no one had ever bothered to solve.

Hermione sighed and scratched her signature on the end of the note she would soon be owling to Luna:

_Dear Luna, _

_This is the worst. Hardly a blink of sleep. Wasn't this your idea? You owe me. Anyway, we got some Polyjuice Potion, so meet us at the Manor this morning at ten. I have to run by the Ministry beforehand, for the Mighty Lord of the Manor requires a house elf. I hate lying. Whatever. See you at ten. _

_Hermione_

Just then there was a knock at her bedroom door which she could only assume came from the Mighty Lord of the Manor himself.

"What?" she called, not caring for eloquence.

"Miss Granger, a word," said He, muffled (maybe comically) by the door.

"Yes," she said, rising with note and wand in hand.

She de-warded and unlocked and when the door was open and Lucius Malfoy stood on the other side of it, there was something in his face that rewarded her with the knowledge that he had heard the extensive de-warding and unlocking and found it vaguely offensive. She smiled and made somewhat of an attempt to not smirk.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," was her lugubrious greeting.

"Mn," he replied, brusque. "Does the Ministry keep old files on hand?"

"Of course," said Hermione.

"Would you say the Ministry has all of the old files on the misfortunes at Malfoy Manor seventeen years ago?" he continued.

"It's likely," said Hermione, realizing to what point Lucius was coming.

"Shall we go through them?" he asked her, as if that would be totally simple to walk into the Ministry and look through old files which were most likely totally off-limits.

"Well, I don't think you should be in the Ministry at all," said Hermione.

"Of course not," he replied, "Get them today and bring them to the Manor."

"I can't just walk into the Ministry and take files willy-nilly!"

Lucius made an exasperated noise.

"Not legally, no," said Lucius, leaving it at that.

"Are you trying to get me fired, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Don't you do contract work, anyway?" he asked.

Why was he so quick at figuring things out, and why did that bother her so much? She tried very hard to keep her face from twisting into mangled consternation.

"Besides," he said. "No one would miss nor suspect the absence of those files."

Deep breath.

"Would they?" he asked her.

"Mr. Malfoy," replied Hermione.

"No one needs those files but us," he said.

"_Mr. Malfoy,_" said Hermione.

"Miss Granger, I need those files, as do you," he said. "For evidence."

She groaned loudly. There was something strange about Lucius that Hermione never suspected would be the case: he had this way of presenting, either physically or verbally or intellectually or even sensitively, quandaries that were wildly frightening but vividly intriguing at the same time. It was a nearly unbearable stretching that made her brain want to fold over on itself and scream… yet she simply could not look away.

"I'll think about it," she said tightly, turning to find her owl.

"Thank you," said Lucius from behind her, as she had turned away. Then the subject shifted. "You keep a decently curated selection of books," said his voice.

"I suppose that would be normal for a person of my _contracted _profession," she said, attaching the note to her owl and perhaps almost throwing it out the window.

"Why books?" he asked, causing her to turn to him for clarification. "Why not politics or some kind of humanitarian work, or auror training?"

"What are you going on about, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked.

He glanced at her, then folded his hands together thoughtfully.

"If I were to have considered what I would have expected you to do with your life, Miss Granger, it likely would not have been bookkeeping."

"Would it not?" she replied, baffled that Lucius would have ever considered what she would do with her life, besides being a useless mudblood.

"You were once very passionate about house elf rights, weren't you?" he said, and then added: "Unbearably so."

"Unbearably for you, perhaps," she said, knowing it was pretty unbearable for most people, actually, but she wasn't about to admit it.

"And having the highest marks in your class," he said. "That isn't an easy thing to accomplish."

She stared at him, wondering at what he was driving.

"You also had the unusual benefit of a large amount of fame," he said. "You probably could have done anything you wanted."

Silence reigned.

"So," he ventured. "Bookkeeping."

"I am the foremost expert in my field," she seethed.

"Of course you would be," he replied.

"What more could I ask for?" she asked. "For what more could I ask?" she asked again, correcting her own grammar like an idiot.

Lucius only watched her, and she felt what he was thinking and she didn't like it. She didn't like his overt manipulation of her, either. Even more, she didn't like that he was making her doubt herself and her choices when she knew her life wasn't perfect.

"What do you want?" she asked him bluntly.

"Those files," said he.

"Oh, stoppit!" she replied, throwing her hands up.

He smiled. How incorrigible!

"That isn't what I meant," she said. "It was a mostly rhetorical question!"

"But that is what I want," he said.

She gave him a sharp look, one which made him lift his chin slightly in order to counter with imperialism.

"I'm going to the Ministry," she said to him, and to dash the hopeful look in his eyes she clarified: "To get a house elf."

Putting on her jacket she said, "You can keep yourself occupied with my books while I'm gone."

He opened his mouth to say something, so she continued to speak before he could.

"Be ready at ten o'clock sharp to go meet Luna," she said. "Good bye, Mr. Malfoy. If you eat all of my eggs, kindly clean up after yourself."

He had given up trying to get a word in and settled into a mutely irritated expression, so she gave him a smile and, feeling momentarily satisfied, teleported away.

-=oOo=-

The Ministry bustled as it always did, and though it had always been an extremely comfortable place for Hermione, today she felt almost suffocated by it. She was feeling stifled due to the way Lucius was meddling with her paradigms, and it made her decidedly uncomfortable. One does not just break the laws when the laws no longer suit one's purposes! One does not just do whatever one wants when one deems it the proper time to do whatever one wants! Unfortunately for her, the fact that all of Lucius' suggestions were valid if they were to be successful in solving this mystery did not elude her, as well as the fact that she'd done much worse while fighting for the Good Side at Hogwarts. Lucius knew that. What he didn't know is that she had spent the past almost-twenty-years living in a very docile, law-abiding manner and was very accustomed to it, thank-you-very-much. It was as if he came from a different era, one that was much wilder and lawless, and he hadn't yet grown accustomed to the peace and comfort of a very serene 2015.

Yet, there was something thrilling and very throw-back about the whole affair, and even the very presence of Lucius Malfoy transported her into another time, for good or ill, when things were much more exciting to say the least, and the choices she made really mattered. Her choices once mattered in a way that affected the whole wizarding world! Now her decisions were things like whether to have chamomile or lavender tea at night, and no one cared about that. She had to resist the urge to kick over a trash bin as she passed by.

"I need to check out a registered house elf for the current project," said Hermione to the familiar clerk for the department in which she most often worked. _Bookkeeping and Libraries Department_ goaded her from a sign above her head. She ignored the sign pointedly.

"There is no funding allocated for house elf allowance," stated the clerk, who was chewing gum. Irritating.

"Regardless of approved funding, I need one," replied Hermione. The clerk looked up at her, then looked over the project report.

"'Ancient and exotic book recovery from Malfoy Manor'," read the clerk. "What do you need a house elf for?"

Hermione felt her left eye twitch.

"For what do you need a house elf," Hermione corrected.

The clerk gave her a flat look and asked, "Are you for real?"

It was clearly a rhetorical question, and at that moment she'd had enough and leaned her fists on the clerk's desk and may or may not have loomed over the other woman.

"Look," said Hermione, looking down to review the clerk's nametag. "Jendy. I need a house elf for this project. I don't care if there is funding, I just need a house elf, and your job is to get me a registered house elf. If you can't do your job, then I am quite capable of finding someone else who can."

Hermione realized the clerk had stopped chewing her gum at about the same time as the looming began. Straightening, Hermione smiled at the clerk.

"I need to check out a registered house elf for the current project," repeated Hermione.

"You may pick up your elf at gate 2A in fifteen minutes," said the clerk agreeably.

"Thank you," replied Hermione.

Hermione suddenly felt really good as she walked down the hallway towards gate 2A. Docile librarian though she might be, Hermione Granger still had it, whatever "it" was. Plus, she had Lucius Malfoy, and nobody knew! The very secret made her insides involuntarily twitter with glee while her consciousness berated her insides for feeling glee and thinking of Lucius Malfoy as an object to be had and possessed and kept away from others. But he was her _secret_. And Hermione Granger positively _delighted_ in secrets. It was truly by all counts and measures an absolutely delicious secret, and Hermione had, for far too long, been deprived of secrets. She had suffered utter secret starvation, and with this one she now felt herself feasting upon it like a cornucopia of the clandestine. Oh, yes, she was hiding Lucius Malfoy from the world, and they would never suspect it! She stopped herself from giggling right before it came out. Close call.

On the way to gate 2A, Hermione noticed the sign labeled "Recordkeeping and Archives" and felt herself slowing to a halt. For a long moment she waged a bitter war between feasting upon the clandestine and her resistance against doing what Lucius wanted.

"Miss Granger?" asked a young man's voice from nearby.

Hermione blinked and looked to see a young secretary holding a number of files and regarding her curiously.

"Do you need help with something?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked him.

"No," he said, abashed. "I simply know who you are."

Lucius' recall of her fame echoed through her mind and she cursed him all the while being forced logically to admit he was right. He was right, she was usually recognized, and she had dodged the spotlight so much it had escaped her notice in recent years. But her fame was there, and it was a tool to be used, so why not use it to her advantage once in a while? Besides, it wasn't even to her advantage; she would be using it to help others. Well, one other. Maybe more others, if all the Malfoys were given justice. It was obviously a totally altruistic cause.

"I do believe I need your help, Mr…" she ventured.

"Bennet," he replied.

"Mr. Bennet," she said.

"Of course, Miss Granger," he replied.

She smiled warmly at him and he blushed.

This was going to be very, very easy.

-oOo—

Hermione flung the files down on Lucius' lap the instant she apparated into her flat, then turned to discard her jacket. It was a warm day, warmer than she'd expected.

"What's this?" asked Lucius as she moved away.

"You know very well what that is," she spat as she made for the kitchen, feeling irritated as all-get-out. She heard him laugh from the sitting room and it made her roll her eyes.

"And my house elf?" he called, setting her teeth on edge.

"He's already gone to the Manor," she called back, "Now shut up and read your lousy files!"

A book went sailing through the open doorway, hit a cabinet, and flopped on the floor.

"Hey! I like that book!" she yelled, shoving the kettle on the stove, finding a desperate need for soothing tea.

"Recompense for rudeness," called Lucius.

"We're leaving in twenty minutes," she said, picking up the injured book and casting a doleful glance towards where Lucius was sitting on the sofa, already engrossed in his ill-gotten files.

"You need to read these," he said, shuffling through the papers.

She just stood and watched until he looked up at her.

"You need to read these," he said to her. She was caught by his expression and voice and found herself momentarily unable to respond. The way he said it, and the way he was looking at her were _just like_ _Harry_ when he used to bring her into his conspiracies. It was just like when Harry used to drag her into things she knew she wasn't supposed to be doing, and she could never resist it, and, yes, she loved it. And it was just like Harry because when Harry plotted he needed her brains and intellect, and he respected her ability to reason and her cleverness, and when she saw all of this reflected in Lucius' face she almost dropped the book she was holding. _Oh, Merlin, how lost I am becoming. _

Lucius' expression grew vaguely baffled.

"Miss Granger?" he asked, most likely assuming she'd been struck by some plebeian ague.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she said, snapping out of it and striding to sit by his side.

He appeared slightly startled by her sudden proximity, which gave her an inner sense of delight.

"Um, so," he said, a multitude of papers in hand.

She took a file from his hands and opened it succinctly, for this was her forte. She was in her element. She _did _need to read these files, for she was, and should always be, the brains behind _any_ well-executed plan, especially the clandestine ones.


	6. St Mungo's Psychiatric Ward

_Author Notes: These two. Oil and water. Endlessly interesting to write. Thank you to reviewers and followers, I'm sure you have noticed the many small imperfections that fill me with shame._

**CHAPTER SIX: St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward**

"Sorry we're late, Luna!" called Hermione, rushing up to the gate of the Manor to join her friend. Luna just smiled, because Luna never got worked up about anything. Hermione figured she could probably learn a thing or two from Luna about serenity, but after knowing Mrs. Longbottom for years upon years, she was convinced it was a hereditary thing, one with which Hermione had not been graced. Lucius eventually joined them but took his time with walking to where they stood, as usual.

"We were going through the files from the Ministry," said Hermione to Luna, holding up a short stack of files in her hand as evidence. "And lost track of time."

Lucius gave Luna a pleasant smile as greeting and said, "Indeed she nearly burned down her flat."

Hermione sent him a sharp glance. "The files were _engrossing_, as you well know, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius simply looked amused.

"I forgot I'd put tea on," she muttered to Luna. "Anyway, where is the house elf?"

"I let him in already," said Luna.

"Ah, excellent," said Lucius. "I will instruct him forthwith."

With that, Lucius strode off into the manor grounds as if he owned the place, which he did.

"Ugh, I'm so tired," said Hermione, grumbling after Lucius' retreating form.

"Yeah, I guess you would be," said Luna. "But maybe it's worth it. Did you find out anything new?"

"Tons," said Hermione, brightening at the subject of information. "The Ministry put together everything on what happened."

Luna pricked her finger and dabbed Hermione's hand with a droplet of her blood. The act made Hermione cringe unconsciously, but whatever, it was better than being in incessant agony because of her "inferior" blood status. She was going to have to talk to Lucius about removing that particular ward as soon as possible.

"Tell me about it," said Luna as they started into the grounds.

"Well," said Hermione. "The Ministry has a whole stack of files on the Malfoys from way back then, their known enemies, suspected enemies, conspiracy theories and proven facts. There was a detective put on the case, a Mr. Peter Gentry, have you heard of him?"

"Yeah," said Luna. "He's retired, though."

"Maybe he'll have more time for an interview, then," said Hermione. "He closed the case as 'unsolvable' at the end of 1998. I guess no one cared, seeing as how we'd all just been through an apocalyptic war."

Luna chortled.

"I suppose it's not unheard of for someone to go insane from trauma, like Draco," said Hermione. "Neville would know all about that, with his poor parents."

Luna sighed.

"He's always been terribly protective of our children as a result," said Luna. "It's as if he's worried a sprained knee is going to cause sudden insanity."

Hermione gave Luna a wry grin.

"I suppose I can't blame him," replied Hermione as they reached the doors of the manor proper.

As they entered the manor, they were greeted with the sound of Lucius' imperious, yet lilting, voice.

"And after you've finished the foyer, kindly work your way back, east to west. I'll take lunch at noon, and please be so kind to arrange sufficient for my guests."

"Yes, sir," said the diminutive creature, who wore a crisp uniform reminiscent of a bellhop (they all did these days).

"That will be all, thank you," said Lucius dismissively, turning to Hermione and Luna.

"We are your guests, then?" asked Hermione.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

Well, technically they were, Hermione supposed.

"I hope you're paying him the proper rate," replied Hermione, unable to gracefully accept Lucius' hospitality.

"Don't I have to?" he said, disgust on his features, perhaps at this new, serene, rights-filled world in which he found himself. Hermione smiled.

"Yes, you do," she said, smug with triumph.

"Ahem," said Luna, dissolving a fog of mutual odds which had settled between Hermione and Lucius. "Time to see your son, Mr. Malfoy!"

-oOo—

After adding Luna's hair to the potion and the required imbibing, Lucius was Luna, but it was still Lucius, and Hermione found it jarring to see Lucius' haughty expression on Luna's generally docile face. At least they were both naturally blond.

"Try not to look so threatening," said Hermione.

Lucius tried to soften his features in a Luna-like fashion, but the best he could do is something approaching "blank".

"You look like yourself," said Hermione. "In Luna's body."

Lucius grumbled.

"They'll think I'm possessed!" said Luna, though she looked highly entertained by observing Lucius try to behave like her.

"Maybe we should tell them I'm possessed," said Lucius.

"Maybe we should just try to keep them from noticing you at all," said Hermione.

"I'm so short," he said, mourning.

Luna took off her characteristically jangly and tassel-ly bag and put it over Lucius' shoulder. Then she took off some of her bangles and put them on his wrist.

"There," she said. Hermione had to admit it helped.

"Alright, I just have to get in there, so that shouldn't be very hard," said Lucius. "And we'd better hurry, because I don't have much time."

Hermione agreed, took him by the now-slender arm, and apparated.

St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward was a place full of ghosts as well as the living. Ghosts were both more commonly crazy as well as drawn to those who had lost their minds. Hermione assumed that was because the mentally disabled had a greater tendency to give ghosts attention, which ghosts craved more than anything else. The halls of St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward housed as many of the dead as it did the living, and the ghosts here were, strangely enough, unusually lively. In fact, the inclusion of the lively ghosts made the Psychiatric Ward seem almost _merry_. Almost.

Hermione cast a side eye towards Lucius to assess his state after viewing the place.

"It doesn't seem terrible," offered Hermione.

Lucius' brow crinkled in response and Hermione felt like she'd just stuck her foot in her mouth, _again. _Of course Lucius wouldn't be in the least satisfied with Draco spending his life here, doing nothing of import, and making nothing of his life. At the very least, Lucius could expect progeny out of his son, but he didn't even have that. In fact, here was where his proud Malfoy line would possibly end. A dead tree. Yes, it was tragic.

They approached the front desk and the attendant-in-white looked up. Hermione smiled.

"Hello, we're here on behalf of the Ministry of Magic – Ancient Tome Recovery and would like to speak with Draco Malfoy," she said.

The attendant peered at them.

"I don't know what you expect to get out of him, but it surely won't be anything about Ancient Tomes," she said.

"Maybe not, but it's worth a try," said Hermione.

"Your names, please?" asked the attendant.

"Hermione Granger and Luna Longbottom," said Hermione

"You have a half hour," said the attendant, who appeared thoroughly bored with her job as she handed over guest nametags and a giggling ghost sailed slowly overhead.

The institutional doors and rooms were white and clean but the riotous life within was madly messy. If there were such a place as ghost heaven, this would be it. Ghosts and the living cavorted, frolicked, and strolled about arm in arm like endless thieves of joy, and within the common room, there sat Draco Malfoy, his face strangely young, but not in the same way as his father's. His face reflected some of the wrinkles that come in one's thirties, but his expression was young, as if his had been a life of little burden due to his own vapid mind. He didn't see them, at first.

Lucius approached with caution, as if he didn't really want to see Draco, but only had to.

"Mr. Malfoy?" asked Hermione as they came closer to the overstuffed white chair in which Draco sat (with a ghost).

Draco looked up and glanced over them both, but his eyes stayed on Lucius.

"Father?" he asked.

Lucius stepped back since, of course, there seemed to be no method wherein Draco should know who he was. Draco stood and smiled.

"Father, it's you!" he exclaimed, and he looked delighted.

Lucius still seemed to know not what to say.

"Where have you been?" he asked, and Hermione noticed Lucius' breathing appeared irregular.

Lucius glanced around at who might be within earshot, and then inquired of the ghost if he would kindly leave. The ghost laughed at Lucius and complied, melting absurdly into the floorboards.

"Draco, I'm trying to figure that out," said Lucius, moving closer to his son.

"I've missed you," said Draco.

"Ahem," said Lucius, who was probably always uncomfortable with blatant statements of affection.

"Yes, likewise," said Lucius in a stilted way.

Hermione felt a moment of the surreal as she watched Luna with Lucius Malfoy's words and expression in this awkward conversation with a Draco Malfoy who, in many ways, appeared not to have matured past seventeen, or perhaps had regressed backward towards twelve. Hermione wasn't a child psychologist, so she didn't know exactly, but this was not a situation she could ever have imagined she would ever be in.

"Draco," started Lucius, seeming not to know how to say his next words. "Can you tell me what happened the night your mother-"

"Don't talk to me about mother!" yelled Draco, startling both Hermione and Lucius.

"But I-," said Lucius.

"Do not speak of mother!" he yelled, jumping to his feet and suddenly full of unexplained fury, but Hermione didn't know if it was fury over his mother, or fury that anyone would dare speak of her, or… well, she was just confused. Apparently Lucius was, as well.

"Draco, I must know," said Lucius.

"DO NOT!" was the reply, and Draco turned. "Frappy! Where are you Frappy!"

The previous ghost ghouled up through the floor.

"Eh?" asked Frappy.

Tension seemed to leave Draco as the ghost appeared.

"Listen Draco, it's important, I'm trying to figure out what happened so I can-," said Lucius, but he was cut off by a sharp look from Draco. Hermione could then see that Draco had inherited all of the intensity of his father, but in this case the whole situation was absurd.

"As long as it isn't about mother, you can ask," said Draco, with Frappy floating up behind him.

"Don't bring up his mother," Frappy offered in a stage-whisper.

Lucius just stared at Frappy, but Hermione smiled sheepishly.

"We figured that out," said Hermione.

Lucius turned to Hermione with large, strange Luna-eyes and quietly asked, "What now?"

As if Hermione should have any idea. She was flattered he would even ask, though, so she prodded her brain into gear. She decided to start asking questions (that didn't have to do with Draco's mother) and see where that would lead.

"Draco," said Hermione. "Do you know why you are here?"

Draco looked at Hermione and said, "Because I belong with the ghosts, I think."

Frappy seemed to agree.

"Do you remember the first day you came here?" asked Hermione.

"I do," said Draco.

"Do you remember the day before that?" asked Hermione.

"I do," said Draco.

"Can you tell me about it?" asked Hermione.

"It began like any other day," said Draco, "At least, it was like any other day when you've just lost your father a few weeks previous."

Draco glanced at Lucius, who remained still.

"The house elf had just given me my eggs and I ate them. I like eggs. It was a good day, so far. But then-"

Draco stopped, and Hermione assumed that they'd reached the point when Narcissa would enter the story.

"I went downstairs," Draco said haltingly, and Hermione got the sense that he was pointedly leaving out anything about his mother. "To the foyer with the paneled walls… the Manor was such a quiet place anymore, it was like living in a library, so it was easy to hear anything that was happening in the next room, and … I just didn't think I'd hear… I didn't know-"

It was almost as if Draco was regaining his sanity by recalling his memories, but they were too much for him to bear. In the end the insanity reconquered, most likely for self-preservation and he locked up with a shuddering sigh.

"Frappy," said Draco, with a smile, as if the ghost of the present was a relief from the ghosts of his past. He looked back in their direction.

"Father, where did you go?"

"I believe I travelled in time," replied Lucius, but then he saw Draco was addressing an orderly who had come to deliver lunch.

"I've missed you," said Draco to the orderly, who chuckled.

"Enjoy your lunch, Draco," said the orderly and he left.

"Thank you, Father," called Draco after the orderly.

Hermione could feel Lucius tremble beside her arm. How horrible. How utterly, utterly horrible. Her stomach sunk peripherally as the implications sunk in.

"It's time to go, Hermione," said Lucius-as-Luna, and Hermione knew it was, right then, _time to go. _

"Sure, Luna, let's go," said Hermione. "Good-bye, Draco."

Draco had already lost interest and was busy discussing lunch with his ghost.

It was difficult for Hermione to keep up with Lucius' stride as they were escorted out of the double doors and deposited their nametags at the front desk. In fact, Lucius didn't stop until they were outside on the street.

"Your flat," he commanded tightly.

She complied wordlessly.

Their landing was solid in the middle of her living room, but she couldn't help but wonder why he'd wanted her flat instead of the manor.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she asked the Luna-shaped Lucius, who had immediately leaned his palms on the back of the couch as if in the midst of intense contemplation. There was no reply.

Hermione hesitated.

"Mr. M-…" she began.

He let out another one of those quick puffs of air, like he had on the day she'd first told him about his wife. This was followed by one of his hands covering his eyes, clutching his temples, shutting out sight and perception. He was strung tightly as a violin.

Hermione didn't know what to do as the silence seemed to stretch interminably. Lucius was frozen and the spell he cast with his stillness was one Hermione couldn't bring herself to break, even if she knew how. Which she didn't.

At last he drew another long, shivering breath and looked up.

"Well," he said, his voice only barely wavering before he was back to business. "How long do you suppose the potion will last?"

Weirdly, Hermione was suddenly pinched by the urge to cry _for_ Lucius. She didn't know why. It was just one of those things that can be only felt and not known, and she started blinking away tears in a panic. It was all so terrible, and worse than she ever could have wished on anyone. She suddenly felt remorse for, all those years ago, wishing some sort of misfortune would strike the Malfoys, for they were just so _so _smug about everything, but if she could see what she'd witnessed today, she'd take back that wish and swallow it out of existence. _Some _suffering is all she'd wanted, not total, barren, wasteland devastation. She could never have supposed it would come to this.

"Um," she said, her voice sounding stupidly emotional and _extremely_ wavery. "I don't know, it…"

Stupid, stupid! Why was she crying? _Why? _

She started picking up books and looking blindly through them, as if that would cover her weakness and emotionality, as if it would cover that she wasn't able to suppress even second-hand emotions even a tenth as well as he could his own first-hand tragedies, and somehow it was a loss for her, and somehow, even in this, he and his philosophies and his superiority and his _side _won_. _She was an idiot. A weak, weak, idiot. Oh, murder.

She furiously wiped a tear from her cheek and found a book that was at least regarding a related subject to the potion he'd imbibed.

"It says here," she said, pointing to a chapter heading and her voice still lame, wet, and traitorous, "That all properly brewed transformative potions generally last 2 hours per eye of newt therein. Your potion generally has two eyes of newt, so…"

She looked up at him and he was leaning on the couch again with his hands, watching her with a sober face.

"Ridiculously emotional Gryffindor," he called her, but his voice was soft. His Luna voice.

Somewhere in her subconscious, his gentle name-calling gave her emotions permission to release, despite her conscious desperation to stay in control. She choked back a sob and clamped a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said behind her hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she repeated, no grammar to correct, here. "I don't know why…"

She stopped, not trusting her voice to stay coherent, worried her emotions would only feed on themselves and snowball her into further embarrassment.

Something of a smile crossed Lucius' Luna face. It was a sad thing, like a fading flower.

He straightened.

"I would usually say something like this," he said. "Undisciplined emotions are the handicap of the weak. Unless you learn to control them, you will never have the advantage in life."

He had paced towards her, his bearing like an instructor.

"It is one of the cornerstones of power: the ability to mask what you are truly feeling," he said. "Showing emotion gives leverage to those who witness it, and one should never give leverage willingly."

He'd come close enough to speak in a softer tone, and as his eyes trained sideways on her, he said, "Even if you've lost everything that is dear to you in a matter of moments, all emotion should be restrained."

She only stared at him with her watery eyes. A rebellious tear fell across her cheek in the face of his lecture.

"Perhaps especially in moments like those does one need the most leverage one can possibly manage," he said.

"I wouldn't use it against you," she said with her ridiculously emotional Gryffindor voice, and there was a flash in his eyes, the barest moment of intimate recognition.

"Wouldn't you?" he asked, making her doubt she'd seen anything at all in his eyes.

"Of course not!" she said, indignation rising to supplant sorrow.

"I suppose that's what you tell yourself," he said. "But if you can imagine if our places were reversed, and I was the one displaying my every emotion with total abandon-"

"I don't do that!" she objected.

Lucius very calmly gave her a glance that said, with one glance, that he very much found that she _did_ display her every emotion with total abandon, and perhaps then some. Suddenly Hermione experienced a moment of piercing insecurity. But how dare he, how dare he turn a moment of her showing very compassionate and _very normal_ concern for his situation into a lecture on Slytherin-Malfoy political leveraging!

Unfortunately, he must have seen the indignation on her face (ugh, maybe she _did _display it all like merchandise in a shopping window) because he stepped back and seemed to be preparing for an outburst.

As an outburst wasn't forthcoming (she wouldn't give him the pleasure), he calmly continued his diatribe:

"Say I were to cry miserably on your shoulder, Miss Granger, for two hours or three," he said.

"Like a normal person would do," said Hermione, but Lucius ignored the interjection.

"I would then be in debt to you," he said.

"What?" asked Hermione, baffled by Malfoy logic.

"Rather deeply in debt, really," he said. "Not to mention a complete embarrassment of a person. You would then expect certain things from me, like confidence, assistance, friendship…"

"Terrible things, to be sure," said Hermione.

"As well as a crushing familiarity through which I would be unable to maneuver with confidence and freedom," he said.

"I see," said Hermione with cynicism rising. "If you are in debt to me, then you don't have as much freedom to stab me in the back and toss me aside like used garbage when it suits you."

Something in Lucius' eyes meant he found that funny, but it was brief.

"Not exactly… but you have the general concept," he said, and she wanted so badly to roll her eyes and whack him upside the head with a stack of books. "Besides," he added carefully. "I am already in debt to you."

She looked over him warily and bade him continue with her silence.

"I can't help but be in debt to you," he said.

At that moment, her breath caught in a sigh; the aftershock of her crying earthquake.

"Don't make me list how," he said.

"As if I could make you do anything," she replied.

"You've made me pay my house elf," he countered bitterly.

"It's the law!" she said.

"I'm still outside the law, aren't I?" he asked. "I don't even exist anywhere but here with you."

She realized he was right, and what a strange notion it was. And sad.

"Don't start crying again," he said, and she gave him a sharp glance for his nerve. He smiled a little in response, and she knew he was irritating her on purpose to distract her from tears. "It's the same lecture I would… and did… give Draco," he added, as if that justified it.

Hermione sighed and wondered what she was going to do with this pocket-universe Lucius-Luna. A thought occurred to her and she placed a hand on Lucius' arm.

"Mr. Malfoy… if we could somehow send you back in time seventeen years… would you want to go?"

"Yes, in an instant," he said like a thirst.

Her hand tightened on his Luna-sleeve as her brain took over. "But if we can manage to do it, it would be wise to know who it was that murdered Narcissa before you return, wouldn't it?"

"And how I was time-travelled," he said.

"And what exactly happened to Draco," said Hermione. She glanced at Lucius and asked, "He seems to have an intense aversion to Narcissa, doesn't he?"

"If only we could know what he saw," replied Lucius.

"For that we would need a cleverly applied pensieve," said Hermione. "But it would be illegal and difficult to pull off in oh, so many ways."

The illegalities were starting to pile up, and it made Hermione sigh. Lucius' hand came over hers, still clenched on his sleeve.

"But for now, perhaps we can investigate the investigator?" he asked.

"Mr. Peter Gentry," replied Hermione, and Lucius smiled at her. "I suppose it won't be impossible to link asking after him to recovering books… somehow."

"You're clever enough, I've faith you can do it," said Lucius.

"But that brings me to another quandary, Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione, pulling away to regard him _thinkingly_.

"Yes?"

"I need to actually do my job, too," she said.

He paused.

"You know, recovering the Malfoy books?" she prompted.

"But I don't want you to take my books," he replied.

"Fine. Fine, then, there's the third quandary," said Hermione, considering the speed at which quandaries were piling up.

She looked back up at Lucius, who seemed to be becoming Lucius again.

"Do you want to know what I've observed about you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Not especially," he replied.

"You," she said, "are a bottomless pit of problems."

"But, Miss Granger, you love problems!" he objected.

She scoffed. How could he know that?

"You thrive on them," he cajoled.

She grunted. He couldn't possibly know that.

"They are the very bread-crusts upon which you subsist," he needled.

She groaned. Now he was just making her sound _desperate_.

"Let's get back to the manor," she managed, irritably. "We've a mountain of work to do."

Lucius just smiled and took her arm.

_~Thanks for reading!_


	7. Mr Peter Gentry

CHAPTER SEVEN: Mr. Peter Gentry

"I could probably join you when you visit Mr. Gentry, were I under a well-executed disguising spell," said Lucius.

"Absolutely not!" said Hermione, her fist coming down on the dainty table upon which sat their dainty lunch. A petit-four jumped.

"Sounds like a good plan to me," said airy Luna, helping herself to the doomed petit-four. Hermione gave her a look of trial and long-suffering, which Luna took in and then replied: "Why not? A disguising spell would only be broken if someone suspects he's Mr. Malfoy. And why would Peter Gentry do that?"

Okay, fine. Luna had a point. But Hermione hated the look of triumph on Lucius' face.

"Mr. Malfoy is supposed to be dead, or… or _old_," added Luna as more proof, casting an amused look at Lucius' non-old face.

"I'm old anyway," said Lucius matter-of-factly, stirring his tea.

"Then we're all old," said Luna, grinning, to which Lucius agreed congenially.

What a _delightful _smattering of small-talk. Hermione brooded over her tiny, adorable salad. She was a storm cloud in the midst of a froth of fluffy white clouds and she wanted to explode with thunder.

"Why do you continue to insist on making this whole endeavor as perilous as possible?" asked Hermione irritably.

"What else do I have to do?" asked Lucius as he sipped his tea.

Hermione used a delicate fork to gouge a leaf of baby lettuce. What else could she set Lucius Malfoy to doing?

"You could do some research," said Hermione. "There's a lot of research to be done."

"But isn't that more or less _your_ forte, Miss Granger?" asked Lucius.

"Yes, but there is only one of me," said Hermione.

"Are we running out of time, somehow?" asked Lucius. "Time seems relative to me now, I hope you understand. Thus, you are free to take all the time you require."

"Have you forgotten that I am a person not in your employ, who has a job, and needs to work to survive, and doesn't have the luxury of spending her life solving a bottomless pit of mysteries with the label 'Lucius Malfoy'?"

"Oh, that?" asked Lucius, seemingly unaffected by Hermione's rant. "You've no need to worry about _that._"

"What are you talking about?"

"You do contracted work, Miss Granger," he said. "I'll simply contract your services."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but not quickly enough.

"I hope you will be so kind to place me at the front of your queue," he said.

She tried again to speak, but he had turned to Luna.

"I'd like to hire you as well, Mrs. Longbottom, and though I don't currently have need of a ward-disabler," he said, and then pleasantly added his reason: "I just like you."

_And you don't like me? _Hermione nearly asked that, which would have been wildly stupid. She felt like she'd suddenly reverted to an 8-year old mentality. _What about me, don't you like me too? _It was so silly she badly wanted to slap herself. Of course he didn't. They _hated_ each other. It was written in the stars. In the sands. In the… whatever else was epic.

"You seem to stabilize Miss Granger," he said, casting his eyes back towards Hermione. Luna seemed to think it all delightfully hilarious. Hermione really did hate him. How could she do anything else? Just _listen _to him, teaming up with Luna against her.

"Mr. Malfoy," began Hermione, without the chance to continue.

"Don't worry, Miss Granger, I am good for it," he said. "There are a multitude of vaults in this old home, and most you will never once catch wind of."

"Most of which you will never once catch wind," muttered Hermione under her breath.

"So, are we ready to continue?" asked Lucius.

"Shouldn't we just go to the Ministry?" asked Hermione in a last-ditch effort, suddenly wanting all of this burden off of her shoulders. "They're fair… -ish…. Right?"

"What if they were involved in a cover up of what really happened?" asked Luna. "What then? What would they do to Mr. Malfoy? We truly have no idea who we can trust with the knowledge of Mr. Malfoy's existence."

Hermione sighed loudly and surrendered her face into her folded arms on the table.

"And besides," said Lucius. "There's the problem of all of the old Malfoy files gone missing into your possession. We certainly don't want the Ministry _looking_ for them presently, now do we?"

At that moment she felt a chill and realized that, through either circumstance or Lucius' own careful construction, Hermione had been trapped. Due to the files she'd filched, approaching the Ministry was no longer an option. She suddenly felt very strongly that she was being pinched in Lucius Malfoy's machinations, but when she moved to look at him, his face reflected not the smugness she expected, but a mild concern. It was at this point Hermione found that she didn't know what to think.

"Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione.

"Yes?" replied Lucius.

"Did you plan this?"

"Of course not," he replied easily.

Hermione exhaled, tense. "But that's exactly what you would say if you did plan it."

"It's also exactly what I would say if I did not," said Lucius.

And that was true, and because it was true, it was frustrating her to pieces.

"Do you understand why it is difficult for me to trust you?" asked Hermione.

Lucius gently cleared his throat.

"I'm not asking you to trust me," stated Lucius.

Hermione smacked the little table between them and stood, the resulting earthquake toppling a tiny decanter of miniature limes. She stood and she loomed, in the way only she loomed when her back was against the wall, figuratively speaking, of course.

"You are doing exactly that," seethed Hermione, barely registering the way Lucius' eyes widened slightly in response. "Do not presume to patronize me by denying the very things you are doing while you are doing them right in front of my face!"

There was a moment of silence.

As Lucius recovered from his surprise, his regard shifted into scrutiny.

"Nice tea, isn't it?" asked Luna. "The house elf really outdid himself, I think."

Luna piled the miniature limes back into the tiny decanter.

Hermione was still struggling to breathe properly whilst her fist was planted in the midst of adorable scones. Interpreting Luna's words was a challenge, they being so far from the immediately previous conflict, it took time to let the mundane sink in.

Lucius smiled graciously (except his eyes reflected none of it) and said, "I suppose so."

As he stood to face Hermione, his bearing spiked with a cold, sharp calculation towards which she felt like an unbalanced nuclear fission, ready to shift and radiate, unable to control when and how and if, and then he politely excused himself.

-oOo—

The home of Mr. Peter Gentry was cute and lovely, like Hermione imagined a hobbit house would be, except without the gross hole in the ground part. The frame of the home was laden with bright early spring flowers and hanging vines of greenery, with a lawn of young gold-green of the Nothing-Gold-Can-Stay variety springing up around it, interspersed with flat stones upon which to walk. It was overall a lovely effect, but the sort with a rough twinge in the knowledge of impermanent glory, and as the sun broke from the low, dark rainclouds to brighten the scene with fragrant bloom, Hermione coveted the vines and flowers with vain, silent, secret longing.

Lucius strode beside her like a shadow-man, impermanent glory personified, and she found herself too gloomy to converse. Fortunately, he perceived it and didn't try.

Luckily for them, Mr. Gentry seemed to be a prompt door-answerer.

"May I help you?" he asked the two of them, looking them over, or sizing them up, or both.

"Mr. Peter Gentry?" asked Hermione.

"Yes."

"I am Hermione Granger-"

"Oh, yes," he said, his face shifting from dim to light. "I thought I recognized you. You're that brilliant witch from the war."

Hermione smiled. "Yes, I suppose I am," she said.

"What's it like knowing Harry Potter?" he asked.

"Oh, well, it's very nice, actually," said Hermione congenially.

Lucius cleared his throat.

"Ah, and this is my associate, Mr.—," and Hermione realized in her moue she had forgotten to ask Lucius what his fake name would be.

"Crockett," said Lucius, smiling and extending a hand to Mr. Gentry. "David Crockett," he finished, and Hermione gave him a side-eye.

"We're here to ask about your investigation of the Malfoys," said Hermione. "I'm attempting to recover some books from the manor, and I need some information to continue my work."

Hermione supposed, loosely, none of that was a lie.

"Well, come in, then," said Mr. Gentry, stepping aside.

Mr. Gentry's home was as pleasant as the outside, and he clearly was the sort of fellow to enjoy homemaking. Or at least, he had become that sort of fellow in his elder years. Hermione and Lucius sat on a fluffy green couch across the coffee table from the armchair wherein Mr. Gentry sat and fussed over the tea service.

"What did you need to know about the Malfoys?" asked Mr. Gentry, handing a teacup to Hermione.

"Well, as you know, the manor was and still is heavily warded," began Hermione.

"I've never seen a home so warded as that one," said Peter. "Nothing like it before nor since."

"Yes, and," said Hermione, choosing her words carefully. "Was there anything that struck you as odd, regarding those wards or the manor?"

"Odd," chuckled Peter. "Well, the whole mess was odd, really. I suppose as it's a long closed case there's no harm in talking about it, now."

Hermione was secretly glad Mr. Peter Gentry wasn't in charge of any of her files, but also secretly glad he was agreeing to be loose with information for her immediate benefit. It was a juxtapositional grey-area that kind of rubbed her the wrong way, but she had a suspicion that this was the kind of grey area in which Lucius thrived.

"That would be highly appreciated," said Lucius, perhaps preemptively. Did he suspect she wouldn't be comfortable with further law-breaking? If so, he was right.

"Well," said Peter, before Hermione could let her conscience do anything else but listen. "Draco was found insane, so no one knows exactly what happened there. He wouldn't talk about it, I suppose it was just too much for the poor young man." Peter sighed. "We'd hoped he'd gain lucidity over the years, but eventually we all gave up. The Malfoys weren't exactly liked, anyway, so no one really minded if they just faded away into the background."

Lucius tensed a little beside her, but he controlled himself. Of course. He always did.

"Yeah," said Hermione vaguely, feeling a twinge of guilt because she had been one of those people who just didn't really care that much about the Malfoys. "What about the death eaters that were caught by the manor's wards? Who were they and what were they doing?"

"Oh, those," said Peter. "It's the strangest thing. The manor had them all strung up like in a web, but magic webbing mind you."

"Who were they?" insisted Lucius, cutting Peter off.

The older man looked startled and began to peer at Lucius as if trying to figure something out, so Lucius cleared his throat.

"May I use the loo?" asked Lucius.

"Of course," said Peter. "On the right in the hall."

Lucius left. Hermione supposed he was worried about Peter somehow seeing through his disguising spell and sought to remove himself from the scene as soon as possible.

"You'll have to pardon Mr. Crockett," said Hermione with an apologetic smile. "He has a weak constitution."

"Does he?" inquired Peter.

"Oh yes, he's sickly," Hermione said, heaving a sigh. "Poor fellow has been sickly and wan for most of his life."

"That's just too bad," said Peter.

"Well. He does the best he can," replied Hermione with a smile.

Hermione hoped Lucius overheard from the hall, because covertly insulting him had never been so easy.

"Anyway," said Hermione. "Go on."

Peter smiled and seemed to have forgotten anything that might have bothered him before.

"So as I was saying, the two death eaters were strung up, but Mrs. Malfoy was already as dead as _Avada Kedavra _could make anyone," said Peter.

"Oh my," said Hermione, suddenly glad Lucius was gone for now.

"Strangely, we never did find her wand," said Peter.

_I did, _thought Hermione.

"Did you take their testimonies?" she asked, fully knowing he probably did not, as she had read everything within the Ministry files in the case, and no where were the testimonies of the two death eaters recorded. Their names weren't even written down. That fact was as suspicious as anything else in the whole case.

"Well," said Peter, shifting his weight and looking awkward.

Hermione waited.

"You see, it's like this," said Peter, moving towards her confidentially. "We didn't exactly know who they were."

"Then how did you know they were death eaters?" asked Hermione.

"It was the robes," replied Peter. "You can't mistake those for anything else."

"No, I suppose not," said Hermione, thinking. "You don't suppose someone might have put death eater robes on them to throw everyone off the trail, do you?"

"Why would someone do that?" asked Peter.

"If they did, it was pretty effective, wasn't it?" asked Hermione.

"That's supposing someone did that, which I daresay, is a long shot in the dark, a very long shot," said Peter with a scoff. "How is your tea, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, fine, thanks," replied Hermione. "But regarding the supposed 'death eaters'…" began Hermione.

"A fine home you have, Mr. Gentry," said Lucius, returning with a smile and interrupting most obtusely.

"Thank you, Mr. Crockett," replied Peter, looking pleased over their attentions to his home. "I'm afraid your tea has gone cold."

"Oh, that's fine," replied Lucius. "We've an appointment to get to, unfortunately, and have to depart."

"Oh?" asked Hermione and Peter at the same time.

Lucius looked at her hard, and, being a bit late on the uptake, Hermione realized what was happening.

"Yes," said Hermione, rising and setting down her delicate tea-cuppery. "Yes. We have that thing. At the place. Yes, let's go, Mr. Crockett."

She couldn't understand why Lucius looked so pained by her response.

Outside, after bidding Mr. Peter Gentry a hasty adieu in the most polite way possible, Lucius took her arm and nearly dragged her down the street with his speed.

"What are you doing?" asked Hermione, and maybe it was sort of a demand.

"I took this," said Lucius, producing what appeared to be a journal marked _1998_ from his cloak.

"You did what?!"

Lucius stuffed the journal back into his cloak. "I took 2005 as well, so he might not immediately realize the correlation."

"Lucius Abraxas Malfoy!" she whisper-yelled as loudly as she dared.

"You remembered my middle name," observed Lucius.

She grabbed his arm and yanked him to a halt.

"How many laws are you going to break before this is through?" asked Hermione, her patience and outrage brushing at some outlying limit. "How many unlawful things are you going to attach to me before it is enough?"

"What is enough?" he asked her brusquely. "What is enough to bring my wife back from the dead and to return to my son twenty years of sanity?"

"I see how it is, then," she replied. "Your actions aren't those of a controlled, rational man, after all. You're just repressed and going mad, driven out of your mind by the things that happened back then and you don't care who you drag down with you. That's how people like you work anyway, isn't it? Using anyone you can toward your own ends. I wish you'd just get it out of your system like the rest of us! It isn't so bad, you know, being _human._"

"For Merlin's sake, woman, it's just a diary," he hissed at her.

"You're getting sloppy," she spat, shaking him off and turning away.

The street was nice, actually, and so was the weather. Hermione could pretend as she walked away that she didn't know Lucius Malfoy at all. Who is Lucius Malfoy? Who knows! It felt rather nice to enjoy a fragment of feigned ignorance. The feigned ignorance was to be brief, however, as a now-familiar hand grasped her wrist and stopped her progress.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice reflecting something different than she was used to from him. It was vaguely vulnerable, perhaps in a controlled way, perhaps genuinely. She didn't know anymore with him, if she ever had, and she refused to turn around.

"You're right," he admitted behind her, confidentially. "I'm getting sloppy."

Was it just another Slytherin act to get her to go along with whatever reckless thing he was going to come up with next? His hand squeezed her wrist.

"I'm repressed, but I _must _be," he sighed.

A wave of guilt tried to sweep over her, but she threw it back.

"I have to be," he said, as if he were arguing with himself, not her. "There isn't time for anything else."

"You said time is relative to you, now," she argued back, but with a voice gentler than she wanted.

Another squeeze.

"It isn't so much," he said.

She turned to look at him. How was a person to know when Lucius Malfoy was manipulating her? How was a person to know when he was lying, or when the helplessness on his face was real and genuine? She sighed and brushed a piece of nonexistent lint from his shoulder.

"When we are done with the journals, I can take them back to Mr. Gentry, pleading ignorance that my companion, Mr. David Crockett, was actually a strange American with a journal fetish, masquerading as a rare book expert, and has since been apprehended and banished back to the States," she said.

Something of a smile crossed Lucius' features.

"He'll believe you, too, because you're Hermione Granger," he said.

"Does that make me trustworthy?"

"Strangely so," he replied.

"I guess you're lucky to have me, then," she said.

"Am I?" he asked, ever evasive.

-oOo—

"Hermione! Mr. Malfoy! It was the house that did it! The house did it!"

They'd barely walked in the front door of Malfoy Manor when Luna's voice came calling to them from the distant end of the great hall. Hermione and Lucius, of the same mind for once, ran into the dining room to see what Luna had found.

Luna sat with charcoal-marked parchments and a book on the floor against a wall of the dining room, her blond hair and pale dress light on a canvas of ancient shadow. She looked delighted.

"It was the house!" she exclaimed.

Hermione briefly wondered if the house would object to being talked about so blatantly.

"What did the house do?" asked Hermione.

"It time-travelled Mr. Malfoy!" said Luna, happiness over the discovery clear on her face.

"How do you know?" asked Hermione.

"Well," said Luna, grabbing her papers and holding them up. "I followed the wards, it's an intricate web, but you know. It just took some time. As I followed them back I had to detect the sigils, which, again, took time. But then I discovered the source of the spell, and it was definitely, clearly, absolutely, Malfoy Manor Magic."

"Wow," said Hermione, impressed. She looked at Lucius who had been quiet, and he was looking up into the vast, cavernous ceiling of the Grand Malfoy Dining Hall.

"Why?" he pleaded with the empty space, his voice sounding strangely broken.

Heavy silence was the reply.

-oOo-


	8. A Man and His Manor

CHAPTER EIGHT: A MAN AND HIS MANOR

It was hard to move while Lucius Malfoy was having a desperate moment with his own house, but eventually Hermione found the courage to do so. Her movement caught his shattered attention, and his eyes drifted upon her.

"Why would it?" he asked, his sentence unfinished, really. Perhaps he didn't have the ability to put all of his thoughts to words, but Hermione knew what he meant.

"Let's think about this, Mr. Malfoy," she said, being the current voice of reason. "Has Malfoy Manor ever done anything to cause injury or difficulty for a Malfoy before?"

"No," whispered Lucius, still shell-shocked. "No, it never has. Not once. I didn't think it could."

"Perhaps it can't," said Hermione.

"I don't think it can," added Luna, glancing around at the place. "I'm pretty sure it definitely can't. From the wards and the signatures of the magic, I don't think it's possible."

"So if the manor can't cause you harm," said Hermione. "It must have been protecting you."

"Not cause me harm?" asked Lucius, intensity growing on his face. "This isn't harm?"

He turned swiftly to the cavern of a dining hall and shouted, "How is this not harm?!"

Lucius' voice echoed back and forth, then faded away into the shaking rhythm of his breath. He was a violin strung nigh unto breaking and Hermione didn't know how to stop it.

"Take me back!" he commanded the house, his voice almost reasonable, but then it wasn't. "I said, take me back!"

The echoes seemed mocking, but surely not? Silence.

"Do you not serve me?" Lucius demanded. "If you do not serve me, then who is your master?"

Tense waiting, and nothing. Lucius paced a few mad steps, and then turned back to the emptiness and shouted, "Do as I say!"

He stood stiffly, and the silence was torture. Giving a furious cry, he turned to Luna.

In a small voice, Luna said, "It's … waiting."

"Waiting for what?" demanded Lucius.

In a smaller voice, Luna said, "I don't know."

His face descended into a thunderhead, but before the lightning struck, he turned and stormed through the door. After a moment, the silence was dotted by a crash. Probably pottery. Maybe priceless.

Hermione heard Luna sigh.

"This is really sad," said Luna.

Hermione could only wonder _why_ the house did what it did. What was so dangerous to Lucius' well-being that the house decided it was a good idea to send him seventeen years into the future? And were the fates of Narcissa and Draco related to all this somehow?

"Luna… how long before Narcissa Malfoy's death did Mr. Malfoy go missing?" asked Hermione.

"Um," said Luna, caught off-guard by Hermione's sudden change of subject. "Three weeks, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I believe that's so," said Hermione, still thinking. "And Mr. Malfoy was constructing wards at the time he time travelled."

"Right, okay," said Luna.

"He was using Narcissa's wand to do it," said Hermione.

"Because Voldemort took his," said Luna.

"Yes, and so," said Hermione. "If the house took him out of the past to protect him, of what was he in danger at the time?"

"Maybe someone was breaking into the manor to attack him," said Luna.

"Wouldn't Narcissa and Draco have known?" replied Hermione. "They were here."

"Oh, you're right," said Luna.

"Maybe he was about to place a faulty ward?" stabbed Luna. "One that would blow up in his face?"

"Maybe… but why would that require seventeen years of time-travelling?" asked Hermione.

"It wouldn't," said Luna, stumped. "Do you think he's not telling us everything?"

Hermione laughed at that, because, from her experience, even asking that was dreadfully hilarious. In a painful way.

"Of course he isn't, Luna! He's Lucius Malfoy!"

-oOo—

Luna had gone home, having a family to tend to, and left Hermione alone in the manor. Well, she wasn't totally alone, she supposed, since there was a house-elf somewhere, probably scrubbing a remote corner of the manor, and a man also somewhere, brooding and perhaps breaking things. She decided to look for the latter person to make sure he wasn't breaking himself.

The manor still had a derelict and ancient aspect to it, since the house elf, whose name she'd thus far failed to learn, had only had one day to clean it up. House elves did work fast, though, because she saw many obvious signs of housekeeping in the main areas of the house. Despite that, Lucius really did need several house elves to keep up the place, she realized, but she committed never to divulge her realization.

The March rays of afternoon sunshine slanted through windows in diagonal beams, bringing color and effervescent dust-light as they came. Hermione wanted to throw all the windows open and air it all out; the dust, the weight, the heaviness, the ancient sadness. Sometimes the light struck a velvet curtain and its color would radiate, discovered by her fresh eyes after years of dim obscurity, sometimes it would fall on the painstaking parquet of a floor, long-forgotten until now seen and recognized, and her roundabout search for Lucius Malfoy brought her to appreciate some of the finer, lost details of Malfoy Manor… and perhaps to be sorry for them.

She heard a clink in a nearby room and went to investigate, secretly hoping Malfoy Manor didn't have any ghosts. Through the open door sat Lucius at a mahogany desk, in a room that looked like an office. The room appeared to have been cleaned and nothing looked broken, which were good signs. He was in the process of pouring brandy in a snifter, which was probably a bad sign.

She knocked lightly on the doorframe and called, "Mr. Malfoy?"

"Do you know the good thing about waking up seventeen years later?" he asked, not even looking up at her while he finished pouring the brandy.

"Er, what?" asked Hermione.

He closed the bottle of brandy (probably expensive, no… make that _exorbitantly_ expensive) and held it up slightly as he glanced at her. "This is even better well aged, and I didn't have to wait."

Hermione cleared her throat and hoped Lucius wasn't planning on getting hammered. Maybe it would deter him if she crashed his party. She sat down in the chair across from his desk.

"Why are you still here?" asked Lucius long-sufferingly.

"I wanted to ask you some questions," said Hermione.

Lucius peered at her.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if you're a golem," said Lucius as he sniffed his brandy.

"A golem?" asked Hermione, who had never once in her life been compared to a golem.

"Yes, made of clay, or something," said Lucius. "It's your reactions. They're just so terrible. It's like you're not a person, but instead someone who was created to be a person but never quite figured out how to be a person. Sometimes you almost get it, you almost do something that makes you seem real, but then it's back to analyzing this, or reacting badly to that."

He sipped his brandy, and she didn't know what to make of his analysis.

"Fine," said Hermione. "Sometimes, yes, I react poorly to things, or I don't know what to say, but I don't see how you can decide what I am like or not like, for you barely know me and for most of the time you've known me we've been horribly adversarial, so what's to know from that?"

"I suppose," said Lucius. "We didn't have to be adversaries."

"Yes, we did!" said Hermione.

"How?" asked Lucius.

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Shall I name the ways?" asked Hermione, almost laughing from the ludicrousness. "One, I'm a muggle witch. You hate muggles, and muggle witches, and anyone who isn't wholly pure-blooded."

"Do I," stated Lucius.

"And two, you were working for _Voldemort_," she said. "In case you forgot, I was _not_ working for Voldemort. We were, as you say, in a war. On opposing sides. Fear and loathing all around."

At this, Lucius looked very interested and leaned forward, his elbow coming to rest on the desk with that strange grace of his, and asked, "Do you really still think there were only two sides in that war?"

Hermione paused as this was not something she had ever considered to be different from what she knew.

"Y-yes…?" the word started to come out as an affirmation, but somehow ended as a question.

"Black and white for you, isn't it," he said to her. "Everything. Black and white."

"Well, it was clear everyone was either for Voldemort or against him," said Hermione, though at the same time she was realizing it couldn't possibly be as clear-cut as that. "Despite… personal circumstances… everyone had to choose a side in the war."

"That's right," said Lucius, both arms leaning on the desk now, but he was lazy about his movements, like all the rage from before had been dealt with, or locked away, and with one hand he cradled his snifter of brandy. "And thus we all instantly became black or white in your eyes. I'm black, you're white. I'm a bigot, you're open-hearted. I'm evil, you're good."

"Well, that's not exactly how I would put it-," she began, but he went on, and though his voice was quiet and languid, somehow she had to listen to it.

"Without black there would be no white, without bigotry, there would be no acceptance. Without evil there would be no good. Don't you see that it is I that makes you good? Without me, you'd have no distinction at all. You'd have to find someone else to crucify in order to prove your own existence."

The last statement came out with a tinge of bitterness and he took a sip of his brandy.

"Mr. Malfoy," said Hermione, disturbed and desiring to protest.

"What a funny view of the world you have," said Lucius, and then he considered the snifter in his hand. "So thus I hypothesize that you, Miss Granger, are actually a golem."

"I am not a golem," said Hermione.

"That's exactly what you would say if you were a golem," said Lucius, a smirk playing on his face.

"And that is exactly what I would say if I were not a golem," said Hermione.

"Then how will I know if you are or you are not?" asked Lucius. "Oh, no," he said, sighing. "Trust is once again required. What a tragic circumstance, because how can the darkness possibly trust the light?"

"And vice versa," added Hermione.

"You know it can't, of course," said Lucius.

"Can't it?" asked Hermione.

"Well…" said Lucius. "Can you think of any circumstances where it can?"

"I'm sure there are some," said Hermione. "Trust must be possible under some circumstances. There's always a way for everything, isn't there?"

"And now you're thinking in grey," said Lucius with a smile. "There you go. Keep it up."

Hermione groaned, but he had a point that she wouldn't dare recognize.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, intending to go on.

"Call me Lucius," he said. "You're thirty-odd years old, not a teenager at Hogwarts."

"I-I'm afraid I can't," said Hermione.

"Why not?" asked Lucius.

"It feels… weird."

"Oh good greek gods," cried Lucius. "Of all the things to feel weird about in these circumstances!"

"Fine," said Hermione, fully meaning to say his name next, but upon opening her mouth to speak, she found herself entirely unable to. She shook her head. "No," she said. "Nope, can't do it."

She suddenly burst out laughing at how silly that was, and she realized he laughed, too.

"That's alright," he said, swirling his snifter. "I'd rather not call you by your first name, either."

She couldn't help herself from a short, outraged laugh.

"Then whyever did you ask, if you had no intention to return the favor?" she inquired.

"I don't know," said Lucius with a faint shrug and something of a smirk. "I just wanted to see if you would do it."

"You're silly when you're drinking brandy while suppressing large quantities of grief and rage," said Hermione.

"How direct you are," Lucius replied whilst the humor drained from his face. He then added, wryly: "I suppose it all just brings it out in me."

He stood to face the window behind his desk.

While the afternoon waned outside and distant, rolling hills faded into sienna, Hermione found she didn't know how to proceed with a silent, brandied Lucius. Moments passed, some awkward, and others that almost passed as tolerable. Hermione realized she had to say something, but she didn't know what, and she had to call him something, but now "Mr. Malfoy" seemed awkward, as if it were an admittance of her inability to be a mature, responsible adult, and perhaps it would cause him to have less faith in her to solve his problems, and even further _yet_, it might make it more difficult for her to ask him the questions she'd come here to ask. That came first, didn't it? Getting answers to the questions she'd come here to ask? Or should it? Was there something wrong in the way she tried to solve problems? Did Lucius have a point, a possibly very valid point, about Hermione's bad handling of other peoples' problems? Why should she do anything differently? Hadn't the things she had done before brought her great professional success? Hermione got things done. If it was required, she did it. But maybe, just maybe, she didn't pay attention to who she steamrolled in order to do it.

"Lucius," began Hermione, half-hating the sound of it on her tongue.

"Oh, look," said Lucius, his voice strangely flat. "You did it."

Was he mocking her? She stood and leaned her hands on his desk.

"Lucius," she said, this time meaning it, and meaning it _for reals_. He turned and gave her his full regard, and it was funny how something like calling him by his first given name suddenly made her feel like that she was, for once, on something closer to equal footing with him. Closer, but not on. She straightened and asked, "May I ask you some questions?"

"Don't you always?" he replied.

He was framed by the burnt sienna hills and pink sunset skies of the grounds of Malfoy. She sighed lightly and went on.

"Were there any signs of danger right before you were brought to this time?" she asked.

"Brought by the manor to this time," he clarified.

"Yes," she said.

"No."

"None at all?"

"No."

She sighed again, swiftly this time.

"You were erecting wards?"

"Yes."

"What particular ward?"

"I'd just finished your favorite."

"Oh, the one that gives me immense pain for being muggleborn?"

"That's the one."

"Thank you so much for that," she said.

"Mn," he acknowledged.

"Was there anything unusual happening that day?"

"No, it was a normal day, if you can call general house arrest and constant unknown danger 'normal'."

"Ahem. Anything unusual happen that week?"

"A normal week," he smirked.

Hermione leaned on the desk.

"Mr. Malfoy-."

"Oh, it's back to that, is it?"

She paused.

"I'm sorry, I'm just not used to-."

"Don't act insecure when you're interrogating someone!"

"Mr. M-."

"You're a disgrace to your house and to everyone who supported you."

"Lucius!"

"Thank you."

She felt the knuckles of her fists turn white against the desk upon which she leaned. How dare he toy with her in this way! She was helping him, of all things. Or, at least, trying to help him.

"Why do you keep trying to make me angry?" she asked.

"Because it's the only emotion you express normally," he replied without any hesitation.

The answer came so quickly she didn't know how to process it.

"And because it's so very easy," he went on . "It's the only time when, for a moment, you seem like a person who might actually be aware of the human experience and not a mindless golem. The cleverest witch of your age, really! Who said that?"

"I think you're manipulating me," she said. "I think you're trying to make me do what you want."

"Well, you are doing what I want, aren't you?" asked Lucius.

And that was it. Something snapped inside of Hermione, because somewhere in her psyche she knew he was manipulating her and he was making her do what he wanted, and it made her furious.

"I do not do what you want!"

She snatched a hideous porcelain gnome figurine from Lucius' desk and vaulted it against the wall with all of her strength. It shattered into a thousand shards of violence and littered the floor with porcelain gnome bits.

"Did you want me to do that?" asked Hermione, her breath short.

"No."

"Hah!"

He looked at her with a deep loathing she'd scarcely seen on a human face, or any face, for that matter. Lucius clapped once and called, "Porgy!"

The house elf appeared at once.

"You called, sir?" asked the house elf who was apparently named "Porgy".

"Clean up those shards, please," said Lucius, glancing disdainfully at the shattered remains of the figurine.

"Yes, sir," replied Porgy.

The elf poofed away and within five seconds had poofed back with a little broom and dustpan in hand. He began cleaning, and it was a slow, awkward, painful process as Porgy scraped up the shards and every noise the shards made seemed magnified as Lucius stood silent and forbidding with his brandy snifter, and Hermione tried to remain silent and at least non-idiotic. Finally it was done, and Porgy bowed to Lucius.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" asked Porgy.

"No thank you," replied Lucius.

Porgy popped out of their immediate existence.

"Miss Granger," said Lucius, turning and giving Hermione a look that said he was fully aware he did _not_ use her first given name. "Would you be so kind to join me on the promenade?"

She didn't know what else to do, for the anger had burned itself out, she had just broken his hideous gnome figurine, and she was beginning to feel a general sensation of remorse. Thus, she followed him out of the office door and onto the outside promenade.

Stepping outside made her feel smaller, since suddenly she was aware that there was much more going on in the world than just what happened in Lucius Malfoy's office. The tangled manor gardens spilled across an acre at least, and then beyond the wild hills faded purple into the distant dusk. All around the grounds were signs of life; birds, squirrels, and forest animals that had had seventeen years of running amok on these lands without a landlord to drive them away. Above them the sky spread out open and full of promise and knowing and a deluge of sunset pastels.

It seemed to take Lucius some time to take it all in as well, because though he walked beside her, he was quiet. The promenade lined the back of the manor like a long, narrow balcony, with three wide sets of stone stairs leading down into the Malfoy backyard gardens, and though the stone structure itself was still mostly intact, there were many signs of Nature's attempt to reclaim this piece of land for herself.

Lucius sighed beside her.

"It's going to take a lot to get this place back into working order, isn't it?" remarked Hermione.

"Honestly," he replied. "I hope somehow we'll figure out how to send me back so it'll never come to this."

"Yes," said Hermione. "That. I believe that if you haven't withheld any information from me regarding the circumstances of your time travelling-."

"I have not," he cut in.

"Then our next step is to use a pensieve on Draco," said Hermione.

"Very well, I'll let you work out the details," replied Lucius. "But what about finding out how to send me back?"

"I believe, though I'm not sure, that the only way for you to go back is for the house to send you back," said Hermione. "And for that you would have to gain the house's permission to go back."

Lucius grunted, and she gathered that he didn't like to ask permission from anyone for anything.

"And that is on the assumption that the house even has the power to do so," said Hermione. "It is one thing to hold a person in stasis while time moves forward."

"You believe that is the function with which the house did it?" asked Lucius. "Simply holding me in stasis?"

"Probably," said Hermione. "But I'll have to ask Luna if it looks that way. Regardless, it is another thing to move a person backward in time. Moving backward even a little bit requires powerful magic… but seventeen years seems almost insurmountable."

"Why would it hold me so long?" asked Lucius.

"I think it was waiting for something," said Hermione. "Something that would … I don't know… ensure the safety of its ward, the Malfoy family."

Lucius thought on that for a moment as they passed a knot of honeysuckle. The scent momentarily filled the air.

"Maybe it was waiting for you," ventured Lucius.

Hermione laughed.

Lucius cleared his throat and fell silent as they walked, which forced Hermione to consider his suggestion. The house brought Lucius out of stasis when she and Luna were there, not a moment before, not a moment after, and if Hermione really considered it, the moment the house chose was the moment Hermione determined out loud to solve the mystery of Narcissa's death.

"I think solving who killed Narcissa is the key," Hermione said suddenly. "The key to everything!"

"Oh?"

"The key to your disappearance, to Draco's madness, the house's behavior, everything," said Hermione. "And I think, maybe, your manor thinks I can do it."

Lucius considered that for a moment.

"I see," he simply said.

"Your manor is awfully sentient for a house, isn't it?" asked Hermione.

"I suppose," said Lucius. "It is old, after all."

As if being old made houses sentient.

"It's a little weird," said Hermione.

"And you say this after having spent your youth in Hogwarts Castle," said Lucius, a wry look on his face.

"Fine, but my house growing up was completely normal," said Hermione.

"Sounds boring."

"I never thought about it," she replied.

"And unsafe," he added.

"It's not like a family of orthodontists has to worry about being killed by rogue wizards," said Hermione.

"I have no idea what you've just said," he replied. "A family of what?"

"Orthodontists."

"I don't even want to know what that is," said Lucius.

"Orthodontists use wires and metal in order to straighten-."

"Please don't go on," he said.

"But-," she said.

"Just don't."

"Stop interrupting me!" she said.

"Then stop saying such unpleasant things," said Lucius.

"Says the former Death Eater."

"Touché," said Lucius. "But still, don't go on. I haven't the stomach for muggle contraptions."

Hermione grumbled.

"Why did you ask me out here?" asked Hermione while watching the darkling sky.

"I honestly can't remember," said Lucius.

And that, Hermione found, was just the right amount of absurd. She looked at him and laughed, and he seemed to find it funny too, in a longsuffering way.

"Tomorrow, then," said Hermione. "Tomorrow we begin work on the pensieve, and you, Lucius, you need to use that clandestine mind of yours to figure out how we're going to use it on Draco."

"You're clandestine, too," said Lucius, defensively.

"Yes, but you make me look like a girl scout. Good night."

-ooOOoo—


	9. Bloody

CHAPTER 9: Bloody

The next morning, it didn't take that much work for Hermione to arrange a hefty extension of her project at Malfoy Manor; she merely explained that, starting today, she would be doing more work for less payment, and all parties were thrilled. They even allowed her to keep employing the house elf for as long as she wanted, for, as far as they knew, she was paying for the elf herself. Hermione continually denied herself the "pleasure" of ruminating over the fact that Lucius was basically getting her to do all of this as he wanted, and how it certainly was a lot of bother and possibly extremely dangerous to her personally and professionally.

She arrived at the gates of Malfoy Manor ahead of Luna, who wasn't coming until after lunchtime, and noticed Lucius in the gardens studying a crumbling fountain. The stepping stones of the front lot looked forbidding to Hermione because she didn't know if the lousy muggleborn ward was still in force, so she turned to the distant Lucius.

"Mr. Malfoy," she called, waving.

Nothing.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

_Mr. Malfoy_ continued studying the crumbled masonry and seemed to have no idea he was being called or even that anyone else existed in the world but himself. Hermione glanced again at the forbidding stepping stones.

Maybe he'd lifted the ward already? She had definitely reminded him to get rid of it several times.

Hermione was not a woman of endless patience, and so she experimented with the first stepping stone, and then, since that one didn't forbid her, she went on to the next.

The prickling began. She fled.

Outside the gates again, Hermione began to wonder why she didn't just keep a flask of pure blood handy at all times, anyway. Surely that stuff would be useful for all kind of applications.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Why was he not responding? She rolled her eyes.

"Lucius!"

Still nothing! She was rapidly forming a promise with herself to acquire a flask of Malfoy pristine baby-pure blood for herself _by any means necessary. _If she ever hoped to get anything done today, she was going to have to go back in. What's the worst the ward could do, anyway? Make her feel bad?

Glancing around, and with a huff, she vaulted back into the Malfoy grounds, determined to reach Lucius' attention before she could totally impale herself on his anti-Hermione ward. Bolting, she made it halfway to Lucius before it became painful.

"Lucius!" she called, and he turned immediately.

"Oh, there you are," he said, as if she hadn't just been here for the past ten minutes, trying to get his attention! The pain very quickly accelerated, though, far more quickly than she had estimated, and it began to blind her senses. She quit noticing Lucius and whether or not he was there or really whether sight existed at all, or anything existed besides this pain and pressure, and the last thing she thought before entirely blacking out was that she'd made a mistake; the ward didn't increase pain on a multiplied scale, but on an exponential scale, and how very interesting yet such a bad, _bad_ miscalculation.

-oOo—

When she became aware of anything again, it was of a unique, red pounding in her skull, a deep fuzziness, and the difficulty of rousing herself enough to open her eyes. She was a fighter, though, and she did, in fact, finally persevere in opening her eyes. She spied curtains, green, shifting in a breeze coming through a sunlit window, and she wondered dimly how she got there.

Soft velvet was beneath her. It was a couch, kind of hard, actually. She rolled off and clambered to the floor. The impact roused her a bit more and, after three tries, she rose to her feet. What was this pain in her head? Everything tilted for a moment and she lurched sideways through a (conveniently open) door onto the back promenade. Had she been in Lucius' office? She didn't remember a couch being in there.

All other questions were totally eclipsed by a sudden tidal wave of nausea. Hermione made a rush for the nearest bush, and literally fell into it and was able, somehow, to use it as a makeshift sofa after becoming sick off the edge of the promenade. Nausea solved, she relaxed in her shrubbery and stared at the sky, allowing the sweat to cool on her face. It was at times like this that one cares not for how one looks.

"Hermione?" she heard Lucius' voice call. How odd, to hear him say it like that. She became too busy thinking about his voice to remember to reply, and so he called again. "Hermione!"

"Hnnnhhgggggh," she managed, and then she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. The pain in her head really was subsiding, but it was just too much bother to try to form real words.

There were some footsteps.

"What are you doing out here?" asked Lucius' voice. "Why are you in this bush?"

Because it's comfortable, she said in her head. She dimly became aware of a twig poking her side. Why did he have to ruin everything?

He began pulling her out of the bush and she groaned, resistant to being pulled anywhere, but he proved to be far stronger and won, and he always won, and she hated that he always won. She pushed him, but it did nothing, for she was to be pulled and taken and carried away back to that horrible, hard velvet couch (probably green).

"I hate you," she mumbled on her side whilst being left on the couch.

"Porgy!" called Lucius.

She listened to Lucius give instructions to Porgy, and she felt a certain deep, immature satisfaction that he seemed tense, as if her being like this made him tense. She liked the idea of causing him discomfort, especially after _this._ In fact, she wanted to give him a piece of her mind right now. The house elf popped away to do whatever, and Hermione decided it was time.

"Lucius," she commanded, except it didn't come out that way. It came out more like, "Lrrssh…sss..."

How embarrassing.

He heard anyway, and when he spoke again, he was closer, perhaps kneeling nearby.

"What is it?" he asked.

She opened her eyes to look at him, and he was indeed kneeling on the floor beside her as she lay on the couch, and he appeared, dare she think it, concerned for her welfare like some kind of prince in a fairy tale, not the man who had decided to leave that horrible, incredibly offensive ward up on his house until it nearly exploded her head. He behaved like someone who actually cares, not the man of terrible, selfish qualities who only wanted her to stay alive so she could serve his own ends. It was his fault she had a ward-pain hangover (which is like a regular hangover, except multiplied by five thousand), his fault she was on this stupid, stiff couch, and his fault she wanted to…

_She wanted to touch his face and tell him not to worry. _

Cold fear melted through her mind, then froze over, hard, expansive, cracking, unyielding, and blinding.

In times like these, a person can gain superhuman strength.

She shot forward with the heel of her hand and barreled into his nose with all of her might. The connection was solid; the satisfaction was instantaneous and immediate and almost as brief as it began.

For a second or two, she wasn't even aware of anything else in existence, but then when she came back, Lucius was bent over, his hands over his nose, and he was trying to stand, and maybe trying to get away from her as fast as possible.

Finally on his feet, his eyes were distinctly dagger-filled as he seethe-asked: "What is _wrong_ with you?"

Hermione was frozen between expressing the unique satisfaction which upper-cutting him in the nose had given her, and pleading total insanity. She could see his nose was bleeding and realized she'd done a pretty good job.

"Can you bottle some of that?" she tried to ask, but it came out slurred and messy.

He made a furious noise and stalked away, and she heard something shatter in the background. Another priceless vase?

"Porgy!" he yelled, before slamming shut what she could only assume was the door.

She decided now was a good time to go back to sleep. Maybe the couch wasn't _that_ uncomfortable.

-oOo—

The next time she awoke, she was far more cogent. Judging by the sun in the window, it was probably early afternoon. Judging by the Luna sitting nearby, it was definitely after lunch.

"Luna?" she asked in that way waking people ask after others randomly. Luna turned from the book she was perusing right away.

"Hermione!" said Luna, sounding relieved. "How are you feeling now?"

"Uhm," said Hermione, sitting up, gauging herself, and finding herself surprised by the result. "Not terrible, actually. Did somebody fix me? My hand has blood on it. Might I ask whose blood this is?"

That was the sort of question Hermione generally didn't foresee herself asking.

"It must be Mr. Malfoy's," said Luna.

"Well, good grief, what did he do… die on me?"

Luna released a chuckle.

"I'm not really sure what exactly happened," said Luna. "He won't talk about it and he certainly isn't talking to you. Or, at least, that's what he said."

"I'm getting the silent treatment, now?" asked Hermione, maybe a little outraged. "For what, getting side-blinded by the racist ward he refuses to remove?"

"Easy, Hermione," said Luna. "Just give him some time."

"Where is he?" asked Hermione, standing.

"Um, you probably shouldn't-," said Luna.

"Oh come on, tell me where he is."

"He's in the dungeon, working."

"Thanks, Luna."

She caught Luna's uneasy smile as she made her way out with an extremely purposeful stride, or at least what she felt like was "extremely purposeful". _Good old Luna_, she thought. Someone more annoying would have stood in her way and caused even more problems. With Lucius in the picture she had problems enough, and as far as this _ward_ went, Hermione had had it_. _She had one-hundred-percent _had it. _

At the very bottom of Malfoy Manor, she burst into the dungeon aflame with righteous fury, and there he was, bent over a facsimile of a pensieve, but ready, with his eyes trained on her the instant she entered the room and a fist clenching a slender tool that perhaps could be used for _murder_. There was murder in his eyes, at least.

She smacked her fist on a table and the glass bottles and bric-a-brac rattled faintly in response, a percussive prelude to her forthcoming demand.

"Remove that ward, _now_, Malfoy!"

"No," was his reply, mild, quiet, but full of his kind of rage.

"Do it," she demanded.

"Or what, you'll punch me in the face?" His fist clenched around the tool in his hand. "Go ahead, continue to support my view on the barbarism of mudbloods."

She couldn't hold back a furious noise at his use of that word, especially considering, eighteen years ago, she'd been tortured by a pureblood, along with his pureblood consent, _in this very manor_.

"Hypocrite," she seethed. "_Hypocrite!_ How can you say things like that and still live with yourself! How do you sleep at night?"

"I don't," he replied.

"Oh, shut it!" she cried, and shoved a table. Something wobbled and crashed.

"Control yourself," he said.

"How can I when I must deal with you day after day?"

Suddenly Lucius shot to his feet and loomed over the table. The tool in his hand (maybe a magical screwdriver?) had somehow become embedded in the wood of the table's surface.

"You must learn to control yourself," he said, each word emphasized with what was admirably controlled fury. What was he saying? Why was he saying it like that? Was he trying to mentor her again? The questions his behavior brought up in her mind diffused enough of her anger to allow her to see a few colors besides red.

Deep breath. She clenched her fists and released them once, twice. Alright, she could try. She could be a reasonable person. A _more _than reasonable person.

"Lucius," she said, addressing him while looking elsewhere, then deigning to look at him, but not being able to keep the glare from her gaze. "Please explain to me why you won't remove that ward."

He watched her like a lion tamer.

"It isn't safe," he said.

She opened her mouth to reply, but he went on before she could.

"That one ward prevents almost a hundred percent of the world's population from intruding on this property without permission. The number of actual pureblooded witches and wizards in this world are very few, and there are, of course, other wards to work on them, I suppose, but this one guarantees not only safety if, in the unlikely circumstance, someone were to wish us harm, but on top of that, it guarantees we will likely not be disturbed. Or discovered."

She felt her brow furrowing as she had to consider that.

"But of course, you never allowed me the chance to explain that," he said, irritation showing.

"Why didn't you answer me today when I called you?" she asked.

"You only called me once," he said. "And you were already too far in."

"I called you at least five times!"

He thought for a moment, then blinked.

"I couldn't hear you outside the gates," he said. "Must be a muffling charm."

"A charm to prevent you from hearing _outside_ the manor grounds?"

"We'll have to get Luna on that one," he said. "I think there might still be wards in place that were set by the Aurors or Ministry."

"They set wards on the manor?" asked Hermione, surprised.

"Oh, yes," he said. "We were, of course, generally on house arrest, even if they didn't call it that."

Lucius un-impaled the table with his magical screwdriver.

Hermione sighed.

"How do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?" he replied, but turning his attention back to the pensieve.

"Manage to always turn things around so I feel terrible after we have a row?"

"You're not the only one who gets the honor of feeling terrible," he replied.

-oOo—

"How interesting!" exclaimed Luna, regarding the newly-discovered muffling ward.

By this time all three of them stood in front of the manor, facing the gate in the awakening bleakness of late March.

"Luna," said Hermione. "Is there any way for you to figure out who set this ward? Or when they set it?"

Luna considered.

"Well, obviously every ward, when set, has a unique signature that is special to the user," said Luna. "Figuring that out, while difficult, would actually be the easy part. Figuring out when would be extra hard, but I guess …."

Luna paused, and then blinked as something occurred to her, and went on enthusiastically, "Well, actually I could use the time signature on some of these old wards set by Mr. Malfoy and compare! Maybe that would give us a good idea, if Mr. Malfoy remembers when he set some of these wards."

"I do," said Lucius. "Considering it was only a few days ago, for me."

"Fantastic!" said Luna, ever blissful. "So I guess as far as identification goes, I could probably figure out what kind of wand set the ward, and then you two detectives would have to go figure out who it belongs to."

Hermione and Lucius glanced at each other.

"Thrilling, right?" asked Luna.

Hermione made a non-committal noise, and then Lucius possibly groaned.

"Well, we'll leave you to it," said Hermione, turning towards the house.

Lucius went along rather mildly.

"I've been meaning to ask," Hermione said to him as they returned to the front entrance of the manor. "How did you fix me after my run-in with that awful ward?"

"Mn," said Lucius. "You did tell me how to subvert it with pure blood."

Hermione glanced down at her hand, which really had more blood on it than anyone should ever have on one's hand. She glanced over to Lucius, who cleared his throat.

"I had to work fast, and it wasn't like I had a needle or anything."

"… Are you alright?" asked Hermione.

"Yes, of course I am," he said, shutting down any discussion of the sort.

They walked in a sort of awkward silence for a moment.

"Are you?" he asked, stilted, not looking at her.

"Am I what?" asked Hermione.

"Are you," he said, clearly discomfited. "Are you … well?"

"Yes, I… yes. Surprisingly, yes," she said with terribly embarrassing sentence structure.

"Well, in the future," said Lucius, reaching into the pocket of his robes, "I have something for you."

He pulled out a flask of blood and handed it to her.

"This is yours?" she asked.

"Who else's would it be?" he replied.

Hermione couldn't stop herself from turning it over in her hands, wondering what it was about this blood that made it more precious than hers. Or even what it was that made it different; different enough to where a ward could be placed to differentiate between hers and his, and only punish her for it. Still, he'd given it to her, and the flask held far more than she could ever need, and it was his fancy, sparkly, vintage-y pure blood that he was giving to her, the lame-o muggleborn extraordinaire, to do with as she would. In some kind of weird, surreal way, it was the nicest, most thoughtful thing Lucius Malfoy had ever done for her. She didn't know whether to feel annoyed about that or touched.

"Thanks," she managed.

"It's nothing."

It wasn't, though.

"You must be good with healing spells," remarked Hermione.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"I'm standing, for one thing."

"Ah. Well, as luck would have it, the house elf is actually very adept at healing," he said.

"Lucky us," said Hermione.

"Us, indeed."

This prompted sudden remorse from Hermione.

"I'm sorry I punched you in the nose."

"Mn."

"But I was offended by the muggleborn ward."

Lucius sighed.

"I was!" she said, convinced her feelings were worth acknowledgement.

"Yes, I know," he acknowledged.

"It might have killed me," she said.

"I know that."

Silence.

"Would you have even been sorry?"

"Of course I would have been sorry!"

Silence again.

Lucius gave a tsk and moved off toward the dungeons.

"Hey!" called Hermione after him, and he stopped.

"Yes?"

"Let's read those diaries," she said. "Can we?"

"Yes, of course, if you want," he replied, compliant, and it felt strange. "They're in the study."

-oOo-


	10. Mr Gentry's Terrible Diaries

CHAPTER TEN: Mr. Gentry's Diaries

"The Study" in Malfoy Manor was, expectedly, far grander than any normal study, but not in a cavernous, expansive way. It wasn't a massive room, but it was tall, with dark, finished bookshelves carrying countless leather-bound tomes upward into shadow and the scent of wood. A dead fireplace waited at one end, its creeping fingers of ash being proof of the existence of fire (once upon a time). The mantle was brooding and heavy with things that once had significance. A couch of leather sat in the midst of the study, cold-looking and cracked with neglect. Also, for mid-afternoon, the study seemed very dark.

"Luminos," said Lucius with Narcissa's wand, lighting all the wall-sconces at once. An encroaching cobweb puffed into flame near a sconce and faded away. Hermione threw open the heavy curtains and coughed as sunshine slanted through the dust, prompting her to open the window. Air rushed through the study, hurried by another open window somewhere in a nearby room, and the sound of flipping pages joined the rustle of curtain fabric. Momentarily caught up in the sudden breeze, Hermione leaned out of the tall window to gaze over the chaotic grounds that had become dotted with budding pale green.

"Spring is coming!" she had to say.

Lucius didn't appear displeased by the notion.

"So it is," he said, and he joined her at the window. It was wide enough for them both, and so he leaned out beside her. After a few moments he asked, "I wonder if any of the rose bushes made it?"

"The rose bushes?" she inquired.

She tried to see what he was seeing, but she only saw a tangle of vines and overgrowth. He continued to peer at the distant stand of ground, but then turned his back to the window and leaned on the sill.

"Yes, some were several hundred years old," he said, and she blinked.

"You're kidding me," she said.

"Oh, please. We live in a magical world. Is that really surprising to you?" he asked.

She laughed, because of course it shouldn't be.

"Sometimes I'm still surprised," she said, "by things that I thought were impossible in my childhood."

He crossed his arms and seemed to be considering her.

"I'd never thought of that," he said.

"Of what?" she asked.

He gave a glance to the countryside over his shoulder and said, "None of this has ever been surprising to me. How could it be? I and my ancestors have had this taught to us since the beginning of time. It's almost as if I was born knowing it."

"But you," he said. "You got to discover it yourself."

Hermione looked out at the sky to think.

"I wonder what that was like," he said, regarding her.

She smiled a little and gave him a teasing glance.

"Are you … jealous?" she asked.

He smirked at her.

"It should be obvious that my position gives me the ultimate advantage," he replied.

She gave him a very elaborate eye-roll just for his enjoyment and left the window for the study proper.

"Where do you keep them?" she asked.

"Keep what?"

"The diaries of Peter Gentry which you clumsily filched," she replied.

"I did not 'clumsily filch' anything," he insisted. "I 'cleverly borrowed' them… without asking."

"Ha," she said.

"They're here," he said, making for a desk which was opposite the leather couch on which Hermione deposited herself. For a moment, Hermione felt strange as she realized how comfortable she felt around Lucius sometimes, and she couldn't logically puzzle out why. Yet, she felt so very uncomfortable around him at other times.

"Which one do you want: 1998 or 2005?" he asked, approaching the couch and holding both diaries in front of him.

"Clearly 1998 is the best choice," she said. "Wouldn't reading 2005 just be nosy?"

"Isn't reading either of them nosy, regardless?" he asked.

"Point taken," she said, taking 1998 anyway.

He claimed the other end of the couch and they settled into the companionable silence of reading an unsuspecting man's most personal thoughts and feelings.

_July 12, 1998_

_Dearest Diary, _

_It has been such a day. First, Fezzik kept me up half the night with his meowing. I don't know why he meows sometimes like that. Does he want out? Does he want in? Does he just want somebody to talk to? It drives me up the wall, though, because going to work after that is always lousy. _

_Today was especially bad. The Malfoys seemed to implode after the war, one misfortune after another, this most recent being the worst. Not that I mind; I never liked the Malfoys and don't know many who ever did, even the ones on their side in the war. The worst part for me was having to clean up after the mess they left behind._

_Shacklebolt seemed the most agitated about last night's murder, what with Mrs. Malfoy handing over Deatheater names right and left for the past month or so, seems he lost his best informer and it made him a real pill to work with all day. I guess the Deatheaters got sick of Mrs. Malfoy's informing the Aurors of their whereabouts, because the two perpetrators the house caught had the robes and all. I'd never seen Deatheaters up close, and I have to say they weren't all that nefarious-looking, really. I wonder if they were just regular bottom-feeding thugs that got roped into it, or something, because they really didn't seem all that brilliant, especially not smart enough to plan to murder Mrs. Malfoy all on their own. The whole affair smacked of something off, though, because I don't know how they snuck in easily enough to kill Mrs. Malfoy but weren't clever enough to get out of the room, even._

_The off thing mostly seems the house, and I hope I never have to go in Malfoy Manor again. The whole place gives me the willies. I'll close this case tomorrow without setting foot in the manor, it doesn't matter anyway, the one Malfoy left has lost his mind and nobody else cares…_

Hermione sighed as she read it.

"What is it?" asked Lucius.

She certainly didn't want Lucius to read it.

"Oh, it's just, um," she said poorly, flipping the pages.

"Did you find something?" he asked, putting down his diary.

"He does refer to it," she said vaguely.

Lucius gave her a look.

"What?" she asked with an uneasy weight-shifting, but she gave in. "Yes, yes. He talks about it, at length."

"Good," said Lucius.

"It's just… I don't like the way he talks about it," she said, almost muttering by the end, picking at a crack in the couch leather.

"Oh," said Lucius, looking amused. He added dryly: "It isn't _nice?_"

"Don't patronize me," said Hermione, turning away to reopen the diary in privacy. "The two Deatheaters they found seemed like regular fellows, so they probably weren't behind it. Shacklebolt was angry, because Narcissa had given up so many Deatheater names and I suppose he'd come to rely on her knowledge. The bottom line, though, is that nobody cared enough to do a thorough investigation."

Lucius was quiet for a while, until Hermione decided to steal a glance in his direction.

"I honestly wasn't aware Narcissa knew of very many Deatheaters left on the run," he said. "I didn't, anyway."

"Oh," said Hermione, for lack of anything else to say.

"I guess, though it may seem odd to you," he said. "We ran in somewhat different circles, as it were."

"You… did?" asked Hermione, finding this unexpected. "Were there that many circles to run in that the two of you could have such different circles to frequent?"

"I suppose," said Lucius. "There were subtle differences."

Hermione exhaled and regarded Lucius, not sure what to make of this new information.

"Lucius," began Hermione, before halting.

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you a question that may seem very personal but may or may not have a lot of bearing on this investigation?"

Lucius gave her a side eye. He clearly didn't want personal questions anywhere in this vicinity.

"Please?" she asked, trying to toe the line between puppy-dog eyes and total professionalism. It wasn't easy.

"Fine," said Lucius with a long-suffering sigh.

Now Hermione had to figure out how to ask it.

"I was wondering… if you could perhaps tell me, maybe, about, um…," began Hermione terribly.

"Oh, just spit it out," groaned Lucius.

"Was your marriage happy?" she spat out.

"Why?" asked Lucius, straight-faced. "Are you coming onto me?"

"Thwaaauugghhh!?" cried Hermione, spitting nonsense, dropping her book, and nearly falling off the couch. "Of course not! I would never! How could you think tha-."

It was only then that she saw his bemused look as he pretended to return to perusing Mr. Gentry's diary.

"You jerk! You charlatan! You disparate!" she yelled, picking up Mr. Gentry's other diary and throwing it at him. He laughed as he tried to avoid getting stabbed by sharp edges.

"Distraction: failed," she proclaimed. "Now, give me a real answer."

"No, thank you," he replied simply.

"What if it's important to the investigation?" she asked.

"I doubt that very much," he said.

Hermione sighed at him.

Lucius looked at her for a moment, then put the diaries down and stood up to go gaze out of the window.

"I hope you won't discount my belief in your slight improvement at not behaving like a golem," he said.

"Stop trying to distract me," said Hermione, single-minded.

"It's too much to ask, I suppose," he said.

"I know what you're doing," she insisted.

"And you were doing so well," he sighed.

"You'll not dissuade me," she said.

"Hermione," he said.

"How was your relationship with your wife?"

"Stop that-."

"Tell me."

"_Hermione._"

"You're obstructing justice."

"Then call the Aurors," he replied sharply.

Hermione stood up and kicked the old couch.

"Why do I even bother?" she asked, the question coming out rhetorical, and then made for the door. Maybe Luna would have something worthwhile to say.

Lucius cleared his throat as she reached the doorframe. She stopped, and turned, and he was looking not-at-her.

"Terrible," he said, his voice reflecting painful admittance, and almost too quiet for her to discern.

Finally, something. _Something. _She wondered if more could be forthcoming, and so she came to him at the window and regarded him, waiting for more. He seemed to be looking again at the stand of tangles where there once were roses. She couldn't know for sure.

Enough time passed until he shifted his gaze to her, and it was a mixture of resentment and loathing. She didn't know if it was resentment for her, for his situation, or for having to divulge such a thing. Maybe it was a mixture of all of the above and a few more things she didn't yet know.

"It was terrible," he said with more strength this time, but seemed even less happy about saying it. She knew at once that this was his least favorite thing in the world; admitting weakness.

He looked down and away, outside.

"What more do you want?" he asked quietly, resentfully.

There were more layers than she thought to the tragedy of the Malfoy family. It was impressive the level to which they had, as a family, appeared to be perfect and in control for so long.

She moved to sit across from Lucius on the windowsill, and she leaned against the side. He kept his eyes outside, though she could see they were dark with controlled anger.

"Thanks for telling me," she said.

"Don't," he clipped, "thank me."

"Yes, but-."

He stood abruptly and called for the house elf as he strode for the door. Porgy appeared in an instant.

"Yes, master?" asked Porgy.

"Clean this room, please," he ordered.

"Yes, master," said Porgy, and then he glanced at Hermione. "And how many for supper?"

"One," he said, and to end his pause at the threshold, he added: "Good evening, Miss Granger."

He left and she realized that she had been dismissed.

-oOo—

Outside, Hermione tamped down the cruddy feeling she got from being summarily dismissed in such a cold manner by tromping across the wild front grounds of the manor with purpose. At least she could talk with Luna, and Luna wouldn't behave like … like a man experiencing lots of tragedy and suffering terribly for it and maybe he was justified in being a little emotionally unstable or dismissive or whatever he wanted to do because he'd just had _terrible things_ happen to him. But whatever.

She kicked a rock. She didn't know why he always rubbed her the wrong way, and why she couldn't forgive him for being who he was, or why she was impatient with him for not telling her everything she wanted to know. It was _frustrating_, really, because she never knew what to think around him, if he was lying to her or honest, or if he was manipulating her or just trying to work with her, or if he was holding back vital information that she needed to use or just suffering. She just couldn't bring herself to trust him, and why should she? Whyever would she, in a million years, trust that man? She had no reason to do so. The bottom line was, he would do whatever he felt was necessary in order to serve his own ends; he had even said as much to her. For Lucius Malfoy, there was no such thing as morality. Everything to him was relative, and she didn't know how to deal with someone so quicksilver.

She didn't feel like they were even on this count, either. He could know where she stood, because she had a sense of what was wrong and right, and that didn't change according to her circumstances. Her behavior may change, but that didn't change what she believed… she'd just feel guilty about it if she crossed her beliefs. He didn't have that problem, and thus he wasn't as predictable in his behaviors because he could change at any moment if his reason deemed it necessary. He also would never be as grounded, perhaps.

Upon what did he ground his life? What was his foundation? Was it his family? Himself? What could it be he was even fighting for? And what was she to do with this new information about his marriage to Narcissa?

If his foundation was his family, then it surely wasn't his marriage. Perhaps he had held out hope that his marriage could be saved, or maybe he was the one that didn't care for Narcissa. Maybe it was Draco that he was ultimately fighting for, and his possible future posterity. The biggest problem with knowing how to answer any of these questions is the only thing Lucius had told her is that his marriage was "terrible", and that could mean an endless variety of things. More frustration.

If he would just cooperate with her like a _normal human_ maybe she could get somewhere in this investigation!

"You look miserable," said Luna, and Hermione realized she'd arrived at the front gate. The statement broke Hermione out of her funk and she huffed a little laugh due to the silliness of it all.

"I think I made Mr. Malfoy angry," said Hermione.

"This isn't breaking news," said Luna. "I assume you'll do the same again tomorrow."

They laughed.

"Do you know what day Mr. Malfoy cast any of the wards?" asked Luna. "Did he mention any of them to you?"

"Yes, this one," she said, raising her bloody hand wryly. "He cast it the same day he was brought here."

"Mm, the ugly muggleborn ward," murmured Luna, inspecting the unseen separate wards that brushed against the inside and outside of the manor grounds. "Interesting…"

"What is it?"

"They seem to be almost exactly the same age," said Luna.

"What are you saying?"

"Well," said Luna. "Basically, the muffling spell was cast just before the muggleborn spell. Maybe the same day."

"Do you know who did it?"

"No!" said Luna enthusiastically.

"Um, no?" ventured Hermione, not sure how to take her response.

"But," said Luna, holding up a finger, "I do know the wand. Yew with centaur hair core."

"Length?"

"Erm… that's impossible to know," said Luna, until: "Unless... Hermione, what is the length of Narcissa's wand?"

"No idea."

"Well, find out, and then I can compare the signatures and maybe I could pinpoint the length… approximately."

"Luna, you're kind of a genius."

Luna just laughed.

"Chances are, however, that we're not going to find two people who were working on the case that had yew wands with centaur hair core, regardless of length," said Hermione. "In fact, I wonder how many people have that sort of wand at all. Probably not many."

Luna shrugged. "Probably not, so it's a place to start," she said. "So if we find the person who cast that muffling ward, what does that tell us?"

"I'm not sure, yet," said Hermione. "But I have some suspicions about… things."

Luna grinned at Hermione. "Care to share?"

"For one… did you know the Malfoys' marriage was terrible?" asked Hermione.

"No," scoffed Luna. "I didn't. Although, I never thought about it much, actually. I just assumed they were united. They seemed very concrete at first glance."

"Well, it was. They had a lousy marriage," said Hermione. "And that opens up some possibilities."

"What kinds of possibilities?" Luna asked carefully.

"Familial subterfuge, of course," replied Hermione.

Luna narrowed her dreamy eyes, and then turned to start packing up her things for the day. For some reason she wasn't saying anything, and that wasn't like Luna.

"What is it?" asked Hermione.

"I have a feeling this is going to get very messy," she said, sticking a book in her satchel.

Hermione chuckled, but Luna clearly wasn't joking, so Hermione's chuckle turned into an exasperated sigh directed at her friend.

"Well, isn't it already?" asked Hermione, shrugging at the sky over Malfoy Manor.

Luna finished and slung her bag over her shoulder, returning her gaze to Hermione.

"This is the calm before the storm," said Luna simply.

Hermione found that ludicrous, there was nothing calm about any of this. She was just about to voice that very opinion when Luna stopped her by raising her hand.

"Hermione," she said. "You do what you do best, and that's figure things out. And I'll do what I do best, and in this case, I'll be gathering Nargles."

"Nargles?"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Hermione."

"Wait, Luna, you-," said Hermione

There was a pop and Luna had apparated, leaving Hermione alone with the large, unkempt Malfoy blackened gate, and the vines, and the sound of an early spring breeze in budding leaves. Somewhere a small animal scrabbled in undergrowth and a pebble shifted.

"You hate Nargles," muttered Hermione.

-oOo—

**A/N: I had to Nargles. Possibly one of my top five favorite parts of the series. I have low standards. **


	11. More Stuff That Happens

CHAPTER ELEVEN: MORE STUFF THAT HAPPENS

That night Hermione was alone in her flat when she was alarmed by a loud noise at the window. It was an owl. Since when did she get so antsy about things like owl noises? She opened the window and retrieved the bird's note.

"Ftloo!" said the owl.

"Ahem," said Hermione, unrolling the parchment.

_Dear Miss Granger, _

_Please forgive that I have owled you directly at your flat; I realize it is a breach of privacy, as we hardly know each other, but I believe you need to know what has happened. _

_You may recall I am the secretary in the Ministry's Recordkeeping and Archives from whom you borrowed a file several days ago, which I was quite pleased to be able to allow you to borrow and look through anonymously, since you are, after all, who you are, and well known for your adventurous and heroic exploits, even though they, at times, extend below the board and require the clandestine. I must admit I'd experienced something of a thrill at being involved, even minutely, in one of your adventures. _

Hermione looked up at the owl with a wry glance.

"He's kind of cute," Hermione told the bird.

The owl blinked.

"But too young," she sighed.

"Ft-lt-loo," said the owl.

"That would just be _scandalous_," she said, chiding the owl for its insinuations. She went back to the letter.

_However, today quite the unexpected has occurred, in that the very file you borrowed has been requested for review by the Ministry! Imagine that, after nearly two decades! _

Hermione swallowed.

_It is an amazing coincidence which chills me to my very bones. I was to bring it to them today, but was able to put them off by pleading scheduling difficulties and a number of other roadblocks barring me from fishing it out from the 'extensive archives', but I cannot put them off for another day without arousing more (and perhaps too much) suspicion toward both of us. Please bring the file and meet me tonight at the Leaky Cauldron. _

_Mr. B_

"Oh, crap," said Hermione.

The owl attacked a spider on Hermione's windowpane, and the spider stood no chance.

"Crap, crap, crap, crap," said Hermione, rising and cramming her hands in her hair.

Someone was suspicious of something. Someone at the Ministry knew someone else was nosing around in the Malfoy case and that someone seems to not want that someone else to be doing what she was doing. At that moment, it became clear to Hermione that she hadn't been nearly as sneaky as she should have been all of this time. It pained her how easy it seemed for anyone at the Ministry to find out Hermione had been working a job at Malfoy Manor, and that she'd just asked for an extension, and maybe even that she'd gone to question Draco Malfoy and Peter Gentry. She just hoped nobody was able to put all the pieces together too quickly so she could create a plan before all heck-in-a-percolated-handbasket broke loose.

Maybe it never would. Maybe somebody just needed that file, coincidentally. _HA. _

Despite her failings in covering her tracks, she realized Mr. Bennet was even worse than she. She grabbed parchment and quill.

_Dear Mr. Bennet, _

_I don't believe it would be wise for us to meet at the most prominent pub in Diagon Alley, do you? Be at the entrance to Knockturn Alley _(oh, when did Knockturn Alley become a place where she would meet someone? Merlin-curse that Lucius!)_ at nine and make sure no one sees you!_

_H._

She all but threw the owl out of the window in her haste and anxiety. It was time to put her own owl to use, so she grabbed it down from the closet and scrawled out two notes:

_Luna, _

_Something's going on, but I don't know what. Someone at the Ministry is moving on this but I don't know who or why. That said, be careful, and act benign. You always are, anyway. They are asking after the file, for unknown reasons. I'm returning it to the secretary tonight… thus far he's been willing enough to keep it secret. If you want, you can meet us tonight at the Manor around nine… otherwise, I cannot blame you if you stay at home. _

_Hermione_

_oOo_

_Lucius, _

_I thought I should give you fair warning that I will be descending upon you tonight around nine o'clock. Probably with company. There are unexpected things happening and I need that file from the Ministry. I also may need your expertise in navigating complicated subterfuge. Please be ready._

_Regards, _

_Hermione_

After a moment's thought, she expel-erased the word "_Hermione"_ and replaced it with "_Miss Granger"_.

"There," she breathed out, despite tension coiling out from her like invisible springs.

Both letters finished, she sent the owl straightaway and stared after it in the night. The headlights of a car passed on wet pavement as the scent of a brief shower rose from the road. The night seemed so normal. But it wasn't anymore.

-oOo—

During the intervening hours, as Hermione prepared for she-didn't-know-what, she tried to work out in her mind all of the possible reasons why this file was being requested now, and she came to a few disarming conclusions.

One, whoever asked for it must be aware that someone else was snooping around the Malfoy case to some degree. Two, whoever asked for it is probably familiar with it, and three, it's possible that whoever asked for it believes it to have incriminating evidence in the file somewhere. As she had looked through it, Hermione hadn't found anything significant or at all incriminating, besides the lousy, half-baked way the Ministry closed the case (which was kind of not at all). Maybe the file needed a second look-through tonight before giving it back to Mr. Bennet. Did this mean that someone in the Ministry might have been guilty of wrongdoing in the case of Narcissa's murder? Did someone in the Ministry _murder _her?

Hermione, for the life of her, couldn't imagine why anyone at the Ministry would want to murder Narcissa Malfoy, hander-over-er of a multitude of Death Eater names. Unless that person was a Death Eater him- or herself? Now it was just getting mind-bending.

The final tidbit that she knew about this was that whoever had requested the Malfoy file was a person who had the clearance to do so. There, unfortunately, were more than a few people with that particular clearance. Maybe Mr. Bennet could help. Hermione really hoped that he was the sort of person to get swept up in a cause and ignore the rules for a little while. Kind of like her.

She had a feeling a lot of this could be worked out if they could access Draco's memories, but as it was, Draco's memories were locked up in an insane asylum. Turning off screaming warning bells in her head, she floo-messaged Harry from her fireplace.

"Hey, Hermione!" said Harry, happy as always to hear from his friend.

"Hey, Harry," she said with a smile, maybe a bit anxious.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Could I possibly borrow your invisibility cloak for a day or two?" she asked carefully.

"That sounds suspicious," he said.

"Right, and could you maybe not mention it to anyone?" she asked.

"Um," he said. "Sure?"

"And maybe just don't tell anyone we talked at all?" she continued with a placating smile.

Harry then just laughed.

"I'm afraid to ask," he said.

"I'll fill you in if I make it," she said wryly.

"I bet you're not even fully joking," he said.

"Well."

"I'm jealous," he said with a grin.

That made her laugh ruefully.

"I'm not," she replied.

"I'll send it over with Hedwig," he said. "But you do have to fill me in… if you make it."

"Thanks, Harry," she said, meaning it to her bones.

"If you need me, you know where I am," he said.

She smiled.

Now _that's_ a real friend.

-oOo—

At exactly nine-o-one in the evening, Hermione poofed into existence at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. The usual suspects were looking suspect in the usual places: a gnarly hag here, a skinny no-good ruffian there, but over _there_, standing stiffly, was a tallish young man whose fair-and-tawny bloom couldn't be fully hidden by a cloak hood, no matter how dark. She approached like a shadow.

"Mr. Bennet," she said quietly.

"Miss Granger!" he said, and he seemed disarmed by her presence.

"Come with me," she said, taking his arm, and before any more could be said, she had apparated away with him to the gates of Malfoy Manor.

"Are you pureblooded?" she asked him directly beneath the looming black gates. Removing her own hood, she saw him take her cue and do the same.

"Where are we?" he asked without answering her, and looking around. "What have you gotten me into?" His dark eyes returned to her.

"Mr. Bennet," she insisted. "I assure you this is all for the best."

"What is all for the best?" he asked her.

She sighed.

"Do you trust me?" she asked him.

He looked down at her as his lips hesitated in forming a response.

"I suppose I should… you're Hermione By-Merlin Granger, after all," he finally said, but he seemed less secure than his words.

She took his hand and tried to give him an assuring look; the look from a person who is incredibly trustworthy. She had no idea if she failed or not.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Thomas," he replied.

"Will you call me 'Hermione'?"

He exhaled slightly and said, "Y-Yes."

She squeezed his hand and asked him, "Thomas, are you a pureblooded wizard?"

"I am not," he said, and then he asked: "Am I going to lose my job?"

"With luck, no," replied Hermione, pulling out the flask of Lucius Malfoy's blood.

"With luck?" he asked dubiously as she smeared a dab of blood on the back of his hand. "What are you doing? Hermione-,"

She cut him off by grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him in for some straight-talk.

"Thomas," she said directly, and he fell silent into a gaze, his light but warm scent wafting over her, and she realized he was very attractive and at the same time she realized she wanted to punch herself in the face for even _thinking _that. He was at least _ten years her junior_. She promised herself a good lashing later for stupidity and pressed forward.

"Listen to me," she said. "It is possible that we are uncovering one of the biggest cover-ups the Ministry has ever seen, and there are people who don't want us to do that. We need to act fast, and we need to act smart, and though I would prefer that you didn't have to be mixed up in this, it looks as if you are. I _need_ your confidence. Will you give it to me?"

He let out a ragged breath and sighed, "Yes."

Hermione smiled and released his cloak, brushing it down to smooth the creases. "Good, good," she said, working to use the vial on herself. "We're at Malfoy Manor, and this blood protects us from an especially powerful ward that would make life very uncomfortable for us without it."

"Why are we here?" he asked.

"This is where I keep the file," she said. "And… something else."

"What something else?" he asked.

"You'll see," she sighed, pulling him up the lane towards the entrance to the manor.

"Miss Granger!" exclaimed Porgy at the door. "The master is expecting you in his office."

"Thank you, Porgy," she said.

She walked the halls of the manor like someone who knew the place, and who belonged in the place, and briefly wondered how she came to be so comfortable with it. The truth was, it seemed like the manor _felt_ a little different than it had the day she and Luna discovered Lucius in the dining room. It seemed less heavy.

"Who is 'the master'?" asked Thomas, full of doubt.

She put her hand on Thomas' sleeve to stop him in the hallway and gave him a wry smile.

"Thomas," she said. "You are going to _have_ to trust me. This is all going to seem very strange, but please… trust me."

Thomas sighed at her, and he was even cute when he did that.

"Fully," she added, ignoring cuteness. "Please? I need you."

That seemed to convince him, and he put his hand over hers on his sleeve. She couldn't help but glance down at it.

"This is possibly the craziest thing I've ever done," he said. "But I will."

She smiled, cleared her throat softly, and carefully extracted her hand. Oh, Merlin.

"Come on, then," she smiled.

They entered the office with the bustle of business about them, and Lucius rose from his desk the moment they arrived.

"Miss Granger," he said by way of greeting. She noticed, perhaps due to Thomas, the contrast of Lucius, his white-blonde plait over his dark-clad shoulder, and his hard wisdom juxtaposed by innate grace. His eyes landed on Thomas and he asked, "Who might I ask have you brought?"

Lucius' voice held a controlled undercurrent of threat that Hermione perceived at once.

"Holy Merlin, Hermione," said Thomas, gaping at Lucius.

"Ahem," said Hermione.

Lucius' eyes narrowed as Thomas said her name.

"This is Mr. Thomas Bennet, Lucius," said Hermione.

Thomas stared wide-eyed in disbelief at Hermione as she said Lucius' name.

"This is Lucius Malfoy! How do you have Lucius Malfoy?" he stammered.

"She doesn't 'have' Lucius Malfoy," said Lucius Malfoy.

"It's like he fell right out of an old picture!" Thomas continued. "Oh my cripes!"

"Mr. Bennet works at the Ministry as the secretary for _Recordkeeping and Archives_, Lucius," said Hermione, forging on.

"And here I assumed he was only your severely under-aged beau," said Lucius blandly. As Hermione spluttered to reply, Lucius went on: "But as Secretary to Recordkeeping, he should be quite useful to us."

"Useful to you?" Thomas asked, then turning to Hermione. "Have you switched sides?"

"There are no sides," said Lucius at once. "The war is over, or didn't you know?"

"Well, I know," said Thomas.

"Then stop saying things that make no sense," said Lucius.

"Lucius!" chided Hermione, then she turned to Thomas and said, "Lucius has travelled through time."

"Then he's not reformed at all?" said Thomas, glancing sharply at Lucius.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," spat Lucius, losing patience.

"Thomas!" hissed Hermione, pulling his lapel in order to do a best job she could do in having a private word with him while Lucius was five feet away. "This is not about the war and I should say his time in Azkaban was reforming enough, as well as the fact that his family switched sides in the war, to the _right _side, if you recall."

Thomas looked Lucius up and down.

"It was awfully convenient, really," said the younger man, "switching sides at the end."

Lucius' expression darkened dangerously.

"Thomas, I have asked you to trust me and you said you would," said Hermione, taking him by the sleeve.

Thomas gave her a hard look, then seemed to give up something with a sigh. "Yes, I will."

"You are to trust Mr. Malfoy as well," she said.

Thomas made a strained noise.

She pulled his sleeve.

"Thomas? Please?" she asked. "If you do, we'll tell you everything."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then released a small, wry (and adorable, but she blocked that part out) smile.

"Very well, Hermione," he said. "I suppose I'm your lamb for the slaughter, aren't I?"

She laughed softly and said, "Of course not!"

But she noticed he was blushing.

"Well, then," said Lucius, reclaiming his seat behind the desk, "shall we fill Mr. Bennet in, or would you two like to continue flirting indecently until the Ministry sends us all to Azkaban?"

Thomas cleared his throat and said, "Please begin, Mr. Malfoy."

-oOo-

A half an hour of explaining, a multitude of exclamations of disbelief by Thomas, and at least seven backhanded asides by Lucius about her robbing the cradle later, they'd finally finished bringing the Ministry Recordkeeping Secretary up to speed.

"And so there you have it," said Hermione. "We're solving a murder mystery that desperately wants to be solved."

"But someone equally desperately doesn't want us to solve it," said Lucius.

"I'm not equipped for this," replied Thomas, looking dazed.

"Sorry I'm late!" yelled Luna as she bustled into the room wearing what looked to be her pajamas.

"Luna!" cried Hermione, giving Luna a hug for the sole reason that she was relieved to have another woman present. Lucius and Thomas were exhausting her for some reason.

"Oh, hello Thomas," said Luna. "I didn't think you knew Mr. Malfoy."

Thomas smiled at Luna, and a fairly brilliant smile it was. Then he blushed. _He blushed?! _

"Mrs. Longbottom," said Thomas. "Good to see you."

"You know each other?" asked Hermione.

Luna shrugged and smiled. "I used to babysit Thomas!"

Oh, now wasn't that just fan-freaking-tastic. She noticed Lucius trying to contain his smirkage, and she narrowed her eyes at him threateningly. If he threw out another ridiculous aside about Thomas being too young for her (which he was), she would find the nearest thing, no matter how sharp, and throw it right smack into that smug look on his face.

"Good times," said Thomas, still blushing, and she began to wonder if Thomas was a serial blusher.

"So!" exclaimed Hermione, wanting to change all of the subjects. "We should go through the file again. We really should."

It was true.

"With a fine-toothed comb," agreed Lucius, pulling it open on his desk. "Oh," he said, pulling out Narcissa's wand and pointing it door-ward. "I've been working on this. _Accio tabula!" _

Somehow, the large corkboard from the dungeons came through the doorway and affixed itself on the wall. There'd been an extraordinary amount of work done with it, with articles and pieces from the file, theories and questions, and strings and magical push-pins connecting things together filling at least two-thirds of the board. Hermione was enraptured at once and rose to gaze, rapt and drooling, upon its scintillating glory.

"How did you learn to do this?" asked Hermione breathlessly.

"You told me," replied Lucius, flipping through pieces of the file in his hands, and handing parts off to Luna and Thomas.

"But you're so good at it!" she cried.

"In this case, I should say I am driven to succeed," he said.

"So you would be," she said softly, touching one of the papers. "I have something to add."

She moved to Lucius' desk and took a quill and parchment and wrote:

_Muffling ward erected just before on same day, yew with centaur hair core_

She then posted that next to _"Time travelled 18 years into the future"_. Lucius stood up, staring at the paper. He moved around his desk, his eyes not leaving the scrap of parchment.

"Earlier that same day?" he asked.

"Mn-hmm," said Hermione, brushing the quill through her fingers.

"That's strange," he said.

Hermione looked at the paper. "It is?" she asked, glancing back to Lucius.

"Although, in general, we were treated as prisoners in our own home," he said, "they always informed us when they were going to put a ward around the property. Something about Ministry rules."

"Considering you weren't legally prisoners," said Hermione.

"Exactly," said Lucius, turning to look at her.

"That's true," called Thomas from nearby, where he was sitting on the hard, green velvet couch with Luna, perusing file papers. "They couldn't legally put wards up around your home without your permission unless you were formally prisoners of the Ministry."

Lucius didn't bother acknowledging Thomas, and instead said to Hermione with a wry look, "We were just informal prisoners."

She gave him something of a half-smile.

"Still," he said, exhaling and regarding the evidence on the board, "They always asked permission… at least I thought they did, until now."

"Well, we know it was the house that time-travelled you," said Luna. "So we know it didn't have anything to do with that."

"Even though it was on the same day," said Lucius.

"Perhaps it wasn't a function of the muffling spell," said Hermione. "But possibly the time travelling was a consequence of it."

"Why would my house send me so many years into the future because of a muffling spell?" asked Lucius.

"It probably wasn't the muffling spell that directly endangered you," said Hermione. "The muffling spell was probably set to keep you from being aware you were in danger… from another source."

Lucius sighed and put his hands on his waist as he stared at the board.

"By the way," said Hermione. "Do you know anyone who has that kind of wand?"

"Maybe," said Lucius.

"I-I do," said Thomas, piping up from the couch.

Everyone turned expectantly on Thomas, who had the nerve to blush… _adorably. _

"Well?" asked Lucius.

"The, um, Minister of Magic," said Thomas.

Luna started laughing hysterically.

"Who is the Minister of Magic?" asked Lucius, who wouldn't know, of course.

"K-Kingsley Shacklebolt," said Thomas, looking nervous, especially at Luna, who was still laughing. "I really am going to lose my job, aren't I?"

"You've just proven yourself useful to me for the first time," said Lucius. "Consider it a triumph."

Luna got gradual control over herself and wiped a tear from her eye.

"I'm sorry," she said breathlessly. "I sometimes react that way to shock."

Thomas looked extremely uncertain about all of the life choices he had made for the past week.

"Okay," said Hermione, taking up the mantle of reason. "He wasn't the Minister of Magic at the time, he was working as Head Auror. If the Aurors had a reason to muffle Malfoy Manor, it very well could have been wholly legitimate."

"That's true," said Luna.

"So we're not accusing the Minister of something horrible?" said Thomas, heaving a sigh of relief.

Luna patted Thomas on the back. "Poor thing," she said.

"We just don't know," said Hermione, and she met Lucius' eyes. "There are some pieces of the puzzle we're missing, and we need to get them from Draco."

"I've adapted a penseive, but I don't know if it will work," said Lucius.

Just then there was a sound downstairs, and a change of pressure, as if the Manor doors had been opened.

"They're here," said Lucius, moving immediately into action, as if he'd been expecting this, whatever _this_ was.

"Who? Who's here?" asked Thomas, jumping up.

"_Shh," _was Lucius' short reply, and he grabbed a satchel from behind his desk.

Porgy's voice could clearly be heard from downstairs, as if the elf had cast a throwing spell on his voice to keep them aware of what he was saying.

"No, Miss Granger and Mrs. Longbottom aren't here, because it's late and they're home and probably asleep," said Porgy.

_Miss Granger _and_ Mrs. Longbottom_ shared an equally wide and this-is-trouble look, and Hermione got her bag and threw it over her shoulder as Lucius minimized the corkboard in a pretty miraculous way and stuffed it in his satchel.

"Why, yes, of course you can search the manor, why wouldn't you be able to?" said Porgy's voice. "Mind the wards, though."

They could hear tromping from downstairs. Lucius pulled out his wand and whispered, "_Deluminosa!" _and all light extinguished in the entire wing, the curtains closed, and the air grew cold and dusty. Distant voices murmured beyond recognition, but close enough to make Hermione want to shriek and run screaming. But these were the good guys! These were men from the Ministry, or Aurors! Why should she be afraid of them? Hermione never had thought in a million years she would be afraid of the Ministry, but right now she was drop-dead terrified of what they would do to her, if she were discovered.

Lucius shifted beside her, pulling something out of his satchel.

"Everyone touch a side," he whispered low, holding a pewter mug by the handle.

"A portkey?" whispered Thomas.

"Just do it!" Lucius hissed. They just did it.

"Might Porgy fetch a snack for the visitors?" asked Porgy's voice in the hallway, not even needing a throwing spell anymore. There was movement in the hall, of people with greater weight than Porgy's, and Hermione shivered and bit her lip and locked with Lucius' gaze.

His lips parted and she watched him whisper-sigh, "Persephone."

There was a sharp gasp (was that her?) and her stomach was pulled out from beneath her, and she was pulled, drawn, stretched, from one fear to another through the nether and into fresh, dark, mist-filled air, the scent of salt and new grass, and the sound of pounding water.

Her feet hit the ground hard, but she found she'd been held by a firm arm which was clenched 'round her waist with the scent of autumn and a thousand memories. Released the moment they'd all landed, she stumbled a little in disorientation.

"Don't fall off," said Lucius from nearby.

She looked down and saw beneath her feet young grass in the dark, and below, a thousand feet of drop and distant white foam on midnight-blue waters. The vertigo made her moan and she fell aside onto her knees, avoiding the sight of such heights and staring at the grass. She closed her eyes tightly.

A hand took her by the arm and hoisted her up, and Thomas' concerned (adorable) face filled her vision.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Mn," she said, turning away from the drop. "Just… I don't like heights very much."

"Understatement of the century," said Luna, amusement in her voice.

Hermione cast her eyes up and allowed her vision to be swallowed by the endless stars. It was a different sort of vertigo.

"Where are we, Lucius?" she asked, dropping her gaze to find him.

He stood some feet off, immoveable and dark, except for the tendrils of white-blond coaxed free by the wind and illuminated by starlight. The pewter cup rested loose in his hand by his side. He had already been watching her.

"Do you not recognize the Cliffs of Moher?" he asked.

_He'd portkeyed them to Ireland?!_

-oOo-

**A/N I was sick so I got to update twice in a row. Yay for being stuck in bed with a computer? The mystery unravels a bit more! WHO DID IT WHOOOOOOO. It was the squirrels in the yard. **


	12. The Cliffs of Moher

CHAPTER TWELVE: The Cliffs of Moher

"Come on, then," said Lucius briskly, turning to walk along the cliff. Fortunately, all three of them had the presence of mind to follow right away.

The path along the cliff kept them away from the edge by a foot or two, so she supposed she should be grateful for that, if she didn't keep looking over it so very often. She just couldn't stop herself, despite her fears; it was right there and morbidly fascinating.

"Mr. Malfoy?" asked Thomas after they'd walked some time.

"Hmn," replied Lucius.

"Who was that back at the manor?"

"Ah, I've no doubt it was 'Ministry Investigators' who've been tipped off on something fishy happening at my house," said Lucius.

"But really the truth is that whoever it is, is trying to keep that case closed," said Hermione.

"Precisely," said Lucius, taking a split from the main trail along the cliff to move down and inland towards a wide field of tall grasses. "I'm sure they've searched the manor by now."

"Drat," said Hermione, moving to walk beside him. "Won't they wonder why the house elf has been cleaning up the place?"

"Maybe," said Lucius. "But it can be reasonably explained away by erratic house elf general cleaning behavior."

"It isn't proof of anything, that's for sure," said Luna from behind.

"Also, I had the presence of mind to bring all the evidence of our investigation with us," said Lucius.

"Thank Merlin," said Hermione. "We need to get Thomas home with the file, and Luna home with her family before anyone can notice they're missing."

"And you too?" asked Lucius.

"Wouldn't I be of better use in a heist of Draco's suppressed memories than sitting around at home?" asked Hermione. "We've no time to lose, you know."

Lucius was quiet in the dark as they stopped before a low fence.

"So," said Thomas, breaking the silence, "how are we going to get home?"

"More portkeys," replied Lucius as he, somehow, clambered _gracefully_ over the fence. Really, clambering was generally pretty awkward, but there was a certain undeniable poise to which Lucius did everything. In general it reminded Hermione of a horrible snake or man-eating cat, but for a moment she noticed and realized it took years of training and discipline to develop such inherent grace, and maybe, just a little, she admired that particular accomplishment by Mr. Malfoy.

She looked up to see Lucius was asking her something.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asked.

"Are you coming?" he asked, and she noticed everyone else was on the other side of the fence. Great, now she would have to clamber, and really clamber, because she was mortal, and mortals _clambered awkwardly. _On top of that, everyone was going to watch her clambering.

Thomas must have sensed her inner clambersome turmoil (yes, she clearly did wear it all on her face, didn't she?), because he shot forward to help her over the fence. How pleasant it was, even though she really didn't need it, to have his strong arms around her for a moment of fence-crossing, and, again, she really didn't need it. But whatever.

"Are you alright?" he asked her on the other side, as if it wasn't clear she was quite alright.

"I promise I don't suffer from fence-phobia," she said to Thomas, with a self-depreciating smile. "I was just… thinking about something else."

She caught Lucius' smirk and her face burned. Looking like an idiot in front of that man was possibly her least favorite thing to do, so she decided to ignore him until this particular moment passed and turned her attention to Thomas and Luna as they walked.

"So we'll want to get you both home as soon as possible," she said to the other two. "But Thomas, I think Lucius and I should have a look through the file one more time before we hand it back to you."

"Or you could just copy it all quickly?" said Luna.

"Oh," said Hermione. "Have you any parchment?"

"Yes," said Lucius from up ahead, who did not at all seem like he had been listening.

"You thought of everything, didn't you, Mr. Malfoy?" Luna asked jovially.

"Thinking of everything is necessary for decent subterfuge," quipped the Malfoy. He spared Hermione a glance as he said, "It comes with practice."

What was he inferring? There wasn't time to investigate, however, for they'd arrived at a thatch-roofed hovel of which's wooden door Lucius wasted no time in immediately opening and stepping through. The surroundings smelled of fresh grass beginning to grow and, despite the weather being brisk, it wasn't unbearable. Spring was impending like a fuzzy, pleasant doom.

Inside the hovel was a strong scent of wood and the sound of Lucius rummaging around in things that clanked and clunked – she found him around a corner (there weren't many), pulling hand-held objects out of a trunk one by one and considering each briefly before leaving each on a low table nearby and moving onto the next. It looked like a rummage sale.

"You certainly have a lot of portkeys," she said, briefly catching his attention.

"Well, one must," he said, returning to his trunk, and seeming to not find it necessary to explain further. It really wasn't necessary, she knew why he might need a whole trove of portkeys. There were any number of reasons why Lucius Malfoy might need a large variety of portkeys to choose from at any given time.

Luna and Thomas were ogling the rest of the hovel, quaint as it was.

"So what is this place?" asked Luna.

"Oh, just another family holding. You can see we've never really done anything with it," he replied, distracted.

Thomas regarded the pile of portkeys on the table.

"Looks like this particular holding has been used mainly for nefarious getaways," said Thomas.

Lucius glanced at Thomas, and then turned to Hermione.

"You know we're going to have to _obliviate_ him, yes?" he said to her.

Hermione opened her mouth, but Thomas interjected.

"What?" he exclaimed at Lucius, who only gave Hermione another knowing look and turned back to inspecting his portkeys.

"He can't be serious," said Thomas, turning his anxiety onto Hermione.

"Well, he's not joking," said Hermione, fingering the edge of her sweater. She was unable to reply sensibly, because Lucius had a solid point, despite it being a point she didn't particularly like.

"Don't you trust me?" asked Thomas, now managing to appear hurt.

"It isn't that, Thomas," said Hermione. "It's… well, it's to keep you safe."

"It is?" murmured Lucius.

"Yes," said Hermione, loudly at Lucius' back, and then more nicely to Thomas: "Yes. This way you won't have to worry about anyone questioning you, and you won't lose your job."

Hermione smiled at Thomas as if that would fix everything, but he didn't seem comforted.

"Here, take the file and copy it," Lucius said, handing it to Hermione with some parchment. He rose, turning to face Luna and Thomas.

He handed Luna a dented star ornament and Thomas a can of what appeared to be beans.

"These should get you as close to home as possible without undue amounts of walking. Mrs. Longbottom, thank you for coming this evening, but you should be at home with your family, so I encourage you to leave immediately. Your portkey password is 'nightingale'," he said.

"Will you be alright?" she asked, glancing between Lucius and Hermione.

"Yes, of course," said Hermione, maybe believing it.

"Do not assume being here is the most helpful thing you can do for us," said Lucius. "We don't want to give them a chance to search for you and find you missing. Too many suspicions would arise."

Hermione hugged Luna ferociously.

"Very well, here are some Nargles," Luna said, pulling a jar from her bag. "You do know how to use Nargles, right?"

"Um… not yet," replied Hermione, accepting what seemed to be a plain clay jar with a cloth lid.

"I thought that might be the case, so I brought this for you," said Luna, pulling out a rolled parchment and handing it to Hermione. "Really they do come in handy, sometimes."

"Yes?" said Hermione.

"Good-bye!" exclaimed Luna, blithe and warm. "Nightingale!"

She was gone in a whoosh.

Thomas filled the vacuum in a rush.

"I'd rather not be _obliviated_," he said simply, addressing Hermione with a sincere look. That sort of look made Hermione want to give him what he wanted, whatever it was.

"Miss Granger," said Lucius' voice from nearby, and she blinked, turning her attention back to Lucius, and maybe waking from a dream. "Copy that file, now."

Hermione looked down at the parchments, file, and Nargle pot in her hands, then moved to sit beside the low table to work.

"Hermione," said Thomas.

"Mr. Bennet," said Lucius. "May I have a moment?"

Thomas sighed. "I suppose."

They faded off into the other room while Hermione worked. She pulled out a few assorted photos and a number of half-done reports. Nothing seemed very thorough in the file. There were included a few newspaper clippings, some memos, and a checklist by Peter Gentry. Using her wand, Hermione charmed a quill to copy all of the written contents of the file, while she dictated to the quill the contents of the photos. She found herself studying the photo of the captured Death Eaters, tangled in magical Malfoy Manor ward-bonds, glowing as bright blue strands against the dark of their robes, and she wondered where they were today. Were they in Azkaban? If so, what would they have to say?

If still alive, they probably were no longer sane. Who were they? What were their names? Where would she find this information if it wasn't in this file?

She bit her lip as she wondered if Azkaban had a public registry. It had to, didn't it? But would finding out their names and who they were make any difference in her investigation?

Maybe.

Hermione finished the copy work and gathered everything to go find Thomas and Lucius nearby in a small, cramped kitchen near the back of the hut. Thomas was standing with his back to the counter, his stance guarded and bracing, and Lucius stood, calm but vaguely menacing, in the middle of the room. She cleared her throat and they both looked at her as if she was an unexpected event.

"I've… finished?" offered Hermione, holding up the file. Thomas smiled at her as his posture relaxed and he received the file, tucking it under his arm.

"Your portkey password is 'roundabout'," said Lucius, addressing Thomas, who still had the dented can of beans. He then turned to Hermione and said, "Mr. Bennet has convinced me he doesn't require _obliviation_."

That was a surprise. Didn't Lucius always get what he wanted? What exactly happened in this kitchen while she was copying the file?

"He does not?" she asked.

"Not at present," said Lucius, though he seemed a bit broody about it.

"Very good," said Hermione, smiling at Thomas. "Thomas, do you know if the Ministry has a public registry for arrested criminals?"

"Hm," said Thomas, then slowly, as if he dreaded the answer: "Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if you could maybe have a look and find out the names of those two Death Eaters found at the scene all those years ago?" Hermione asked, continuing to smile, as if that would convince Thomas to further embroil himself in this mess.

Thomas groaned in response.

"Hey," said Hermione, approaching Thomas and gently poking him in the shoulder. "You said you wanted adventure. Well, _here it is_. It's usually scary and even terrifying and there's generally a lot at stake, but the rewards are enormous."

"Are they?" asked Lucius, one eyebrow piqued and a vague smile on his face, as if he found her description of adventure amusing and interesting at the same time.

She glanced sidelong at Lucius and asked, "Wouldn't you know?"

He seemed not to know how to answer her question.

"Yes, Hermione," said Thomas, taking the hand that was poking his shoulder in his own. "I'll do my best."

"Then get home immediately," she told him, allowing him to hold her hand for the moment.

He nodded, but he lingered, and she almost panicked when she thought he might suddenly embrace her, but the notion never materialized enough to happen. Within seconds, Thomas had clenched his can of beans and his Ministry file, fixed her with a sober gaze and murmured "roundabout" as if it actually meant something, and had disappeared from her reality. There seemed to be a hole in his absence, and it took a moment for her to adjust to the sensation of being alone with Lucius again.

"It must be difficult, warding off lovesick young men enamored by your fame and brilliance," said Lucius.

"Oh, please," she said, noticing his smirk. "It never happens."

"No doubt because you're not the type to take advantage of it," he said.

"Is that a compliment?" she asked.

"Is it?" he returned. Again, everything he said always ended up being dubious. "I'd say it's a miracle you didn't end up married into the Weasley family."

"Not a miracle at all," she said. "We weren't suited."

"I think everyone could see that," said Lucius.

"Oh, well, wonderful when I'm the last to know these things," she said, feeling an old, creeping annoyance come over her.

"At least you did figure it out eventually," he said.

"Why are we talking about this?" she asked.

"Indeed, we should instead be talking about how Mr. Bennet is far too young for you," he said.

"No we should not be talking about that!"

"I'm only trying to help you to _not_ be the last person to know it this time," he replied.

"Lucius!"

"What?" he asked. "I've only your best interests at heart."

"That is not something that you have ever had at heart!"

"Perhaps it would be better, then, to stress to you the need for our investigation to be unfettered by the complications of romance," he said. "Do you have any idea what romance does to any project?"

"Causes complications, I'd wager," she replied dully, leaving the kitchen to find her things.

"If you wish to understate it," said Lucius, following her. "It severely reduces the effectiveness of any endeavor, and why, you might ask? Because the two parties involved are so busy pining after one another they miss details. Important details. Do you not realize that the key to subterfuge is in the details?"

It was enough, and she rounded on him.

"Must you continually condescend as if I'm still a seventeen year old girl with no experience in the world, and no intellect to match? Do you think I've never experienced romance, and thus require your-," and she made quote marks in the air, "'expertise' in navigating my love life? Though it might be shocking to you, I have experienced a range of romantic situations, some with co-conspirators, even! Amazingly, no one died horrible deaths as a result."

Lucius looked bored by her tirade. "Clearly you've cracked the code and can now live happily ever after," he said.

"Look who's talking," said Hermione, and there was a moment his eyes darkened and she realized she'd hit a soft spot. His face grew cold and he went to rummage in the box of portkeys. She gave him his silence and began organizing her things in her bag- the Nargle pot, the copy of the file contents, Harry's invisibility cloak, her wand. She considered everything for a moment.

"What did you do to that pensieve of yours?" she asked Lucius' back.

"I adjusted it to extract specific memories," he said. "From a specific time."

"Does it work?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said.

"Should we test it out?" she asked.

"Probably," he said, continuing to inspect the portkeys. Now he was just acting sullen. She moved to kneel beside him at the portkey trunk.

"So what are you looking for?" she asked.

"For what are you looking," he corrected and her blood ran cold and then hot, one after another.

"You've just corrected my grammar!"

He looked at her. "You love grammar, don't you?" he asked, as if everything were normal and that was normal behavior under these circumstances. She laughed at the absurdity, and then looked over the portkeys.

"We really should stop fighting, you know?" she said, picking up a chipped blue plate.

"But it's so easy," he said, and then he held up an old trophy. "This one will get us near St. Mungo's."

"And now we figure out how to get inside to Draco," she said.

-oOo-

**A/N: writing this chapter was like trying to eat glass. sometimes they come easy, this one was nothing but pain and suffering. fortunately the next chapter is coming more easily! **

**A/N #2: the cliffs of moher (and most of western ireland for that matter) is one of my favorite places in the world. so amazing. miss it all terribly. **


	13. Event Horizon

**A/N: Sorry for the wait on this one! I was feeling lousy for a long time. Now I'm not! **

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: EVENT HORIZON

It was drizzling in the dark outside of St. Mungo's, that late winter sort of drizzle that made everyone and everything in it utterly miserable for not only its cold and permeation, but for its existence due to spring's proximity. The drizzle was loathed, the bastard step-child of winter, wanted by none and a burden to all, its own existence curled in on itself with self-hatred, the impending spring further accentuating its cold misery. Warm, happy days could be seen in the distance, today was unwanted and stretched, hating itself like the last breath of winter's near-corpse that would soon decompose like a wraith into the fertile ground of springing lily blossoms, but not today, and it was the 'not today' part that made it worse. There was a stretching one experienced when today was resented deeply for everything that it was.

Hermione took out the invisibility cloak.

"Ah?" asked Lucius, clearly surprised by the arrival of such a thing.

"Indeed," she said, throwing it over them both. They'd planned to use disillusionment spells, but she'd decided on the way over that this would be far far more secure… as long as they kept their feet covered. Lucius was taller than Harry, quite a bit taller.

She would have never guessed in a million years that she would one day be skulking around under that cloak with Lucius Malfoy, but here they were, with the added bonus of some protection from the horrid drizzle. The front door of St. Mungo's was open, it being a hospital and all, and so they timed their entrance between a portly elderly wizard and a witch with purple haze floating 'round her head, dodging out of the way just as the door tried to close behind them. It was somewhat miraculous how they could move in tandem (mostly) when the situation required it.

In a moment of imbalance he veered away, so she took his arm in hers and held it fast. They moved quickly through the hall, avoiding the few workers and patients who were there at this time of night, and made for the hall they knew to be the one wherein Draco lived. The door wasn't open, but it was only a matter of time before someone came through, and so they waited near a potted plant that guarded them from being accidently bumped by passers-by.

Lucius gave Hermione a glance, then pulled out Narcissa's wand. Before she could object to whatever it was he was going to do, he'd already softly cast a muffling spell, allowing them to speak beneath the cloak as they waited. Still, they spoke quietly, perhaps with only a certain amount of faith in the limits of the muffling.

"Do you think we'll manage to get Draco to go along with it?" asked Hermione.

"I don't know," said Lucius, appearing pensive as he poked at the pensieve within his carry-all. "I don't know him anymore. There's something off about him."

"Yes, definitely off," said Hermione, feeling like that was an understatement, but Lucius glanced at her.

"No, I mean, besides the insanity," he said. "Something off about the insanity. Didn't you notice when he seemed to struggle for cogency?"

It was true there was a moment when it seemed like Draco was coming to himself, but it ended swiftly and in a way that appeared as if it were out of Draco's control. Having never been clinically insane herself, only the normal sort of insane, Hermione didn't know if this was something to be concerned over. Hermione tightened her grip around Lucius' arm.

"What if something or someone were keeping Draco insane to keep him from talking?" she whispered to him, gripped by the possibility.

Lucius just looked at her, as if he preferred, at the moment, to simply consider the idea. Hermione used her other hand to hold back the cloak to get a better look at Lucius. It was distracting when half of his face kept disappearing. After a moment, he spoke, his voice soft.

"How would we know?" he asked.

Hermione thought, biting her lip and glancing down at the tiles beneath them.

"Check him for wards," she said suddenly, looking back to Lucius.

"He isn't a house," said Lucius, a slight incredulousness crossing his features.

"No, no, of course he isn't!" said Hermione, somewhat excited by the prospect anyway. "But I think maybe… maybe if we used the same sort of approach, maybe we could find it."

"It's too bad we don't have Luna with us, isn't it?" said Lucius with a wry smile, and she kind of liked that smile. Why? Why did she like it? Was she growing accustomed to it? Never mind all that.

"Yes, well, we can't drag everyone around with us all the time, now, can we?" she replied, glancing over at the front desk at the end of the hallway.

"No, it wouldn't be nearly as cozy," he said with a smirk and then asked: "Would you like to sit down?"

How polite.

"I suppose we might as well," she replied, moving to sit and lean against the wall. "Not much seems to be happening at… what time is it?"

"An ungodly hour, or so they say," he replied, sitting beside her.

The invisibility cloak pooled around them and Hermione felt existential.

"We're ghosts, aren't we?" she asked.

"Less than ghosts. The ghosts can't even find us," he replied.

"I wonder, do we really exist here right now, if no one can see us or hear us?" she mused.

"Do we exist anywhere?" he went on.

She turned her head to look at Lucius, who seemed so calm for a man who wasn't supposed to exist at all, especially now and the way he was, considering _time_ and _circumstances_.

"I wonder if you're real," Hermione said, a smile curling at her lips. "Or a fit of madness in my mind, designed to pull me out of the rut in which I found myself."

Lucius appeared vaguely amused.

"You're not supposed to be real, you know," she said, sighing.

"Am I not?" he replied, pushing out against the invisible barrier of the cloak, expanding and retracting the mini-universe they inhabited at his will. Like a god. "Tell me then, what am I supposed to be, if not real?"

"Well," said Hermione, glancing down at her hands. "I suppose you're supposed to be dead."

"Death is real enough," he said.

She pushed out the cloak a little, wielding control over the universe in her own way.

"But it's mysterious," said Hermione. "No one knows what happens once you pass through that door. It's… the event horizon."

"Event horizon?" inquired Lucius.

"Um… black holes."

Lucius just looked at her.

"Imagine a portal through which one can never return, and once you pass into it, you will never be the same," said Hermione. "But you can never know _how_ you'll never be the same until you pass through it."

"And so it is forever a mystery," he said.

"And also that makes it … I don't know… not as real," she said. "Because it can't be experienced."

"Well, it can."

"Yes, I suppose it can," she said. "But I can't go there, then come back and tell you about it."

Hermione went quiet. Lucius leaned a little on her arm.

"What about ghosts?" he inquired.

She shook her head.

"No?" he asked, prodding for her thoughts.

"As you approach the event horizon, you slow. Well, you don't actually slow, but you appear slow to all who observe you, and seem to never change, and for long after you've passed into the black hole itself, your image lies near the event horizon, stretched into a facsimile of what you truly were, like a phantom."

"And this is what you think a ghost is? An image of what once was and has long since passed in reality?"

Hermione shrugged a little.

"It is clear they've never gone all the way through, isn't it?" she asked.

"Hm," he said. "What a deep conversation."

Hermione let out a soft chuckle.

"This is what happens when you sit in St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward under an invisibility cloak with your once-enemy now-co-conspirator at 3 a.m. and have gotten very little sleep for days," said Hermione with authority, for she _knew_.

"We'll get some sleep in a few hours, probably," said Lucius.

His arm, as it leaned against hers, was connected to a shoulder which was perfectly positioned for her to ever-so-slightly rest her head upon, and maybe she did and maybe she didn't, for this was her universe and also Lucius' and no one could prove anything. She sighed and closed her eyes while she impossibly denied _time _and _circumstances _and skirted reality.

"Hermione," he said. "You're a very adroit girl."

Oh, brother. A girl? Was she seventeen again? She was, however, too comfortable to object, so she figured she would just allow him to talk freely. Who knows, maybe he would talk himself into a hole. A black hole. It was all very amusing deep inside her, in the place that wasn't half-asleep and sitting on the floor behind a potted plant in St. Mungo's.

"Not only are you resourceful and surprising, but loyal and dedicated. I suppose that is the perfect description of a Gryffindor, isn't it."

What? He wasn't saying Gryffindors are stupid and bull-headed, and moronically heroic? She wasn't even a Gryffindor anymore. She hadn't been one for almost twenty years. Why was he even talking about that?

"And, I must admit," he said, meandering, "You're very enjoyable to fight with."

"With which to fight," she objected softly.

"Who would ever say, 'You're very enjoyable with which to fight'? That just sounds _terrible_," he said, chiding her, though without conviction.

She shifted towards more comfort, which may or may not have meant leaning upon his shoulder with the conviction that he previously lacked.

"You could have just said, 'I love fighting with you'," she murmured.

There was a pause. Was it a loaded pause? She didn't have the focus to know. Where was the event horizon, she wondered.

"What a boorish statement that would be," he said, dismissing it.

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten you must always speak in vagueities and subtleties," she said. "It is the purebred way."

"I merely prefer not to engage so directly… in any way," he said. "The less one engages, the more freedom one has."

"Mm, Malfoy platitudes," she said, her admiration wholly facetious.

He nudged her.

"Isn't nudging against purebred rules?" she asked.

"I'm not a horse," he said. "The term is 'pure-blooded'."

She found that funny for some reason, and had to laugh, though she kept it quiet into his shoulder.

He sighed, though she felt it against her hair more than heard it.

"Well, I suppose I have no such limitations, my blood being as sour and uncouth as it is, and I can say and do anything I want," she said.

"Such freedom you possess, Miss Granger."

"But I don't love fighting with you," she said.

"Don't you?" he acquiesced.

"No, it's unpleasant. It makes me upset and I always end up sorry."

He didn't reply, and with her head on his shoulder her gaze was averted enough as well as the feeling was confidential enough to where she could say what she said next.

"I love _talking_ with you," she said. And then after a moment of silence, she went on, "You're intelligent, you have depth, you possess interest in a broad range of subjects, you've spent your life cultivating who you are, and though I sometimes don't like the choices you make or the way you go about things, sometimes _not at all_, you're the most interesting person I've met in a very long time."

After he said nothing, she went on, "I understand if you don't engage. You must, after all, keep all of your options open, mustn't you? It's your way, after all. But I'm free to speak as I wish because that is _my_ way. That's not to say there isn't a certain satisfaction I receive from fighting with you, tempered with self-loathing. I don't want to fight, but if that's all I can have, that's what I'll take… because anything is better than nothing."

She felt time stretch. Would this event horizon be like death, or a black hole? Would it be one from which she could never return to tell about it?

"Miss Granger," he spoke into her hair, and his voice soft and warm and the words more personal than anytime he had ever said her first name. "I feel the need to stress to you the necessity that our investigation be unfettered by the complications of romance."

A chill ran through her at those words, and the event horizon loomed before her in sharp detail. It was there, it was reachable, and it could be breached by _one step_. She didn't know it was there until it suddenly was, and its sudden appearance came as a shock. The last time he said those words he was talking about she and Thomas, but this time he clearly meant she and himself. And he spoke it like a request, like he needed her to comply, because he couldn't do it alone. Oh gods, when did there become the idea of they? There was only one way to respond. Denial and ignorance, obviously. Her best friends: Denial and Ignorance.

"Of course," she said, lifting her head from his shoulder and turning to gaze the other way. "How could I really entertain the idea of dating Thomas? He's lovely and all, but we're not suited."

When Lucius didn't respond, she added, "It won't be a problem, I assure you." She laughed a little and said, "I mean, it could never happen. How silly!"

There was still silence from Lucius, and she wanted to pull up her knees and bury her face in total humiliation, but she kept herself from it, only just. Lucius Malfoy, if anything, was _very _good at using silence to his benefit. Finally, after painful seconds that felt like minutes because time was stretching and so was she, he spoke.

"I only say it because we all need to remain focused."

She nodded, still resisting any urge to glance at him, but trying to behave normally and if she were actually calm and not losing her mind. It was quite the inner-wrestling-match.

"All of us," he said carefully.

He said it in a way that might have been construed as an admittance, or it might not, because he used his careful, curated, impartial nobility voice, wherein every timbre and inflection is under utter, utter control. Regardless, she couldn't probe for clarification, as well she shouldn't, because they'd both just agreed on the perils of concurrent romance or any distraction of the sort, and she believed it. He was right, she knew he was right, and it was all true.

Still, the tension was almost unbearable for her at that moment. She stared at the doors to Draco's hall and tried to will someone to come through them and end it. As if the gods of door-opening heard her pleas, the sound of someone on the other side came to her like the song of an angel and they both stood without speaking, because they both had waited for this with anticipation. She wrapped her arm firmly through his and he was pliant and willing, because they each wanted to be sure to move in the best possible tandem, but also because they were in agreement about many things.

Their focus was singular, and as the orderly passed through, they slipped between the doors undetected.

The hallway was as clean and white as she remembered, with the occasional ghost wandering through or lingering like a homeless veteran of life's war. She pulled Lucius along and they looked through each door's window, looking for the familiar hue of Malfoy-blond hair. At last the younger Malfoy was found, wrapped up in a blanket on a bed within a door … that was locked.

"Of course they would lock the doors," muttered Hermione, as the muffling charm was still in effect.

"Perhaps an unlock charm?" ventured Lucius.

"It's possible the lock has a ward on it," she said. "But an orderly or a nurse would have a key."

"Filching a key off of a nurse sounds more perilous than charming the lock," replied Lucius.

"Not when you have nargles," countered Hermione.

Lucius seemed not to know how to reply to the idea of actually using nargles, but it didn't matter, because Hermione already had Luna's instruction parchment unrolled and was reading it. Luna seemed to understand Hermione's affinity for clear and concise directions:

_HOW TO ACTIVATE NARGLES: _

_1.__Make sure jar is at room temperature. Nargles become unpredictable in extreme temperatures. _

_2.__Sing to jar in the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" these words: _

_a.__Nargles, Nargles, hear my song,_

_b.__Steal the treasure, right or wrong._

_c.__Find what I seek, little elves,_

_d.__In the cupboards and the shelves,_

_e.__Nargles, Nargles, hear my song,_

_f.__Go and get the _ (insert what you want here). _

_3.__RELEASE THE NARGLES AND BE AMAZED_

_4.__Please remember to place the attached noraberry in the jar to collect the nargles when they are done. We do not want free nargles running about. WE DO NOT. _

"Hmm," said Lucius, who had been reading over her shoulder. "Do you sing, Miss Granger?"

Despite him using her formal name, it would never be the same, not since their time with the potted plant in the hall and he said it _like that_. She couldn't help but be affected by it. Nevertheless, she behaved more or less normally as she replied.

"Enough to do this, I think," she said.

So she began to sing, trying to ignore Lucius' possible smirking (although she didn't know, as she refused to look at him), and at the end line, she sang:

_Go and get the keys from a nurse or orderlyyy._

She pretended that rhymed with the rest of the song in some parallel universe that didn't exist and then opened the nargle-pot. Nargles, or what she assumed was probably nargles, burst forth, around a dozen of them, small, blue creatures about the size and length of a green bean, all long, thin opalescent wings, stick limbs, and mischievous glances. They were wildly confused by the invisibility cloak, and so it took a long moment of awkward (and taken out of context, probably hilarious) fumbling to actually set them free. They flew off, silent and cunning. Well, she hoped they were cunning. Lucius turned to her.

"And now we wait," he said.

"I suppose that's what we do," she replied.

"Do you think they'll manage it?" he asked.

"It's worth a shot," she said. "Better the nargles get caught than us."

"Unless they trace the nargles to us," he said.

"How on earth would they trace nargles to us?" she laughed.

"Nargle-tracing," he said, smiling a little, knowing it was absurd.

"Of course," she said, finding herself kind of helpless not to smile at him. "All basic security systems include nargle-tracing."

"How silly of you to forget," he teased, and he looked to be fighting against a return smile.

"Have you ever seen a nargle before tonight?" she asked.

"No," he said, and then, after a pause: "It has been a very illuminating night."

She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her when he said those last words. Maybe it was because she knew he was no longer talking about nargles, and maybe it was the close quarters in which they had been forced for some time now beneath the invisibility cloak wherein it was impossible to deny the presence of certain forces at work between them. She was a mature adult and wholly capable of tamping down this sort of thing for the greater good, and that is precisely what she intended to do, but for the moment she could find no fault in herself for being locked in his gaze as time stretched again more slowly towards the event horizon, because naturally she had to do _something_ while waiting for the nargles to return.

His lips faintly parted and she allowed herself to watch, only meandering her gaze back up to his after she'd had as long a look as she pleased. As their eyes met again his pupils dilated, and that knocked some sense into her. She turned aside and looked down the hall, pinching herself in her side, _hard. _

"I wonder where the nargles are?" she asked, focusing on the pain of her self-inflicted pinching. If he wasn't nearby, she would have smacked herself. And then thrown herself in a cold shower. And then possibly thrown herself in a vat of lava, never to be heard from again.

He didn't reply, but turned to lean back against Draco's door and exhaled slowly.

It was then that she determined to be courageous and Gryffindor about this, and honor his request for no-romance to the letter. It certainly wasn't nice to go around testing boundaries. They weren't here for making out under an invisibility cloak! They were here to rescue Lucius' son! In retrospect, she wish she hadn't just thought of the whole "making out under an invisibility cloak" thing. _But whatever._ She could be brave, courageous, and _chivalrous_, if that's what she needed to be. What was it that Don Quixote aspired to? _"To love, pure and chaste, from afar"_? She could do that. Although, who said anything about love? That was just _absurd. _Still, the general idea was a good one, one that she would adopt for the time being in order to keep this whole operation running smoothly.

A tired orderly came down the hallway pushing a laundry cart. As he passed, a number of nargles hopped clandestinely out of laundry pockets and around the orderly with admirable stealth. It was really rather amazing how they could seem to be everywhere around and on the orderly without him having any idea of their presence. They seemed to work together without audible communication, producing the orderly's keys, which they handled with silent precaution and precision, allowing him to continue down the hallway as they hovered behind, hoisting his key-ring betwixt the twelve of them.

"Brilliant," she found herself saying, as she admired the nargles' skill.

"I shall remember to call up Luna whenever I require something lifted," remarked Lucius.

"Does that happen often?" she asked with a smirk as she held up the cloak. The nargles returned to their universe.

He was evasive and perhaps somewhat coy as he replied, "Perhaps more often than you think."

She took the keys from the nargles and handed them to him as she said, "I doubt there is much you could do that would surprise me, Lucius."

He took that with a silent half-smile and kept his thoughts to himself as she dropped the noraberry into the pot and watched the nargles fly in like cats drawn to catnip. Securing the lid, she looked over the keys in Lucius' hand. So very many keys.

"So which one do we use?" she asked.

"I would say… the one with the room number on it," he said, and she suddenly felt like an absolute moron. Of course. Numbered keys. She sighed in self-defeat for missing the obvious.

Lucius patted her on the back.

"It's fine, Hermione," he told her with a wink. "You've been distracted."

Her eyes opened wide in outrage. She'd been distracted? As in _only_ she? Was he now trying to imply that she was just so flummoxed by his magnificence that she couldn't think straight around him? Like this was a one-way street? Was he about to twist this whole story in that way, making him look like the lady-killer and her just a simpering hapless damsel caught in the blinding light of his glory? _Not on her watch! _

She opened her mouth to voice a cluster of outrage when his finger landed across her lips in protest.

"Wait," he said softly and she paused, waiting. The imperious vanity had left him and was replaced with sincerity, or at least as much sincerity as can be created on Lucius Malfoy's face. "The thrill when you make that look is only eclipsed by what you say just after you make that look. It is sure to both amuse and fascinate-," she felt a flash of fury, but he hurried to continue, "But we don't have time for that right now… as much as I wish we did." He looked like he really meant that. This man really likes fighting! He must have deep-rooted problems. And a pretty face. She tried to focus on the pretty face part. But not too much. Just enough to be productive. "Draco is in there and we have the key." _And that's why we're here, _was the unspoken truth between them.

He tested the waters by pulling his finger slowly away from her lips. She smiled at him.

"Lucius," she said. "Let's go get your son back."

-oOo-

**Greetings, readers! Thanks for reading! **

**In this chapter it was revealed that I am a MAJOR SCIENCE NERD. Occasionally I go mad with scientific power and create rambling, obtuse physics metaphors in my writing. This time it was black holes. Do ya'll like black holes? I sure do! Except I don't like to be in them. Not at all. Total particle obliteration is NOT FUN. I admire black holes from ****_afar_**** for their ability to form solid galaxy centers, and occasionally cause matter to explode in fiery double-pole vortices. **

**Despite the fact that many authors say this, reviews really do help encourage me to write faster. It's true! So if you like, leave a review and it'll make my day. **


	14. Mind Library

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: MIND LIBRARY

Getting into Draco's room was easy enough. Getting Draco to cooperate was the thing Hermione dreaded the most. In his current state, he was as unpredictable as a five year old child. Maybe even younger. She wasn't an expert on children, obviously. The thing was, he was _unpredictable. _

"Should we just try to apparate with him using a portkey?" she asked Lucius as they observed his sleeping form.

"Don't you think there are wards on this building against that?" he replied.

They stood, both beneath the invisibility cloak and Hermione felt more like a ghost than ever before. Speaking of ghosts, Frappy was nowhere to be found, and Hermione had a feeling that ghost could potentially cause a lot of problems.

"Alright, fine," she said, heaving a short, bolstering puff of air and pulling off the invisibility cloak. "Let's do this."

Lucius took out his altered pensieve and moved towards Draco's bedside while Hermione cast an illusion spell on the window of the door. Now, anyone who looked in would see everything as it should be, not Hermione and Lucius messing around with one of the patients as they shouldn't be.

There was a click and a whirr as Lucius activated the pensieve on Draco's bedside table. It glowed softly, and then Lucius took Narcissa's wand, affixed it in the side of the pensieve, and then pointed the tip of the wand towards Draco's temple. A thin, white thread of magic began to flow from Draco to the pensieve, and he stirred, mumbling incoherently, but didn't wake. Lucius gave Hermione a wary glance, and then leaned over the pensieve.

"How is that supposed to work?" asked Hermione.

"Theoretically," he said, peering into the magical mechanism, "I should be able to search through his memories, sort of like searching through files in a cabinet."

He leaned further over the thing, and seemed to be looking for something.

"Is it working?" asked Hermione after a moment.

Lucius didn't reply and instead stared with great intensity into the surface as a pale blue mist rose, ghost-like from its depths. She couldn't resist moving closer to peer over Lucius' shoulder, and as she leaned, the pensieve fully activated and they both fell in. A sickening vertigo gripped her until she landed with miraculous solidity, finding herself and Lucius nearby in what looked to be Draco's memory of yesterday's lunchtime.

"He really is always with that ghost, isn't he," remarked Lucius, gazing at Frappy hovering near Draco and the remains of some sandwiches. They were in the main room where Hermione and Lucius had met with him before. Hermione watched another Lucius arrive to take Draco's tray.

"Wait, that's you," said Hermione.

"Yes, it is," replied Lucius, grimly.

"Thank you, father," said Draco, smiling.

"Of course, Draco," said the other Lucius with a chuckle, taking the tray, and exiting the scene.

"That can't be you," said Hermione.

"No, it can't," said the real Lucius, still watching, his expression tight.

"Go backward," said Hermione.

"Mn," agreed Lucius, and he must have done something she couldn't see on the outside of the pensieve, because the memory flipped back, like pages in an album. The scene was in the same room, and there Hermione saw herself with Lucius beside her, talking to Draco.

"Ah, that's when we saw Draco!" said Hermione. "And… you look like yourself, not Luna."

"Yes, don't I," said Lucius. He seemed to have no patience for observing this scene play out again.

*flip*

There were days after days of the same sort of scene: Draco mildly dwelling in the insane asylum, and being approached by Lucius. Always his reaction was the same.

"I've missed you, Father!" cried Draco.

Lucius was strung tighter and tighter as the memories wore on in their repetition.

*flip*

Earlier, there were more memories of what she assumed must be psychiatrists attempting to work with Draco to help him obtain some lucidity. Very often the psychiatrists, in Draco's memories, assumed the body of Lucius Malfoy.

*flip*

Earlier yet, there were attempts by Ministry employees to obtain official record of the events witnessed by Draco, and always Lucius was there, present in some form or other. One such scene included several aurors, what looked to be a wizard psychiatrist, and Draco in an office. Behind a large desk sat another Lucius, steepling his fingers. By the age of Draco, it looked as though it was shortly after the "incident".

"It appears Draco has no memory of what happened, or has, perhaps, blacked it out of his consciousness," the psychiatrist was saying.

"Draco, do you remember anything?" one of the aurors asked him.

"Father, tell them," Draco said to the Lucius behind the desk.

"I'm not your father," said desk-Lucius.

"Yes, you are," implored Draco.

Desk-Lucius sighed impatiently.

"He seems to be suffering from a great deal of psychosis," said the psychiatrist. "And refuses to talk about his mother."

"Do not speak of her!" screamed Draco, crouching to the ground in a sudden movement. "Father, tell them!"

Desk-Lucius trembled subtly as the psychiatrist knelt beside Draco and began speaking softly to the younger Malfoy.

"Sir," said one of the aurors to desk-Lucius. "I don't think anything will come of this."

"Won't it?" asked desk-Lucius, then to the psychiatrist: "Is he utterly insane? Will he be able to testify?"

"Father, I don't need to, you'll do it!" cried Draco. Desk-Lucius tensed.

"I do not foresee it," said the psychiatrist, regret in his voice.

"Father, _tell them!"_ insisted Draco.

This seemed to snap something in desk-Lucius, for he shot to his feet and yelled:

_"I am not your father!" _

The other aurors and the psychiatrist seemed shocked by desk-Lucius' outburst and silence filled the room as Draco began to weep.

After a long moment, the psychiatrist ventured: "I-I will take Draco back to the hospital now, with your leave. He's been through enough for today."

"Yes," said desk-Lucius. "Yes, fine. Take him."

Desk-Lucius turned away.

"Good-bye, Mr. Shacklebolt."

Desk-Lucius only grunted in reply and turned back to the other two aurors as Draco was led out by the arm. As the memory faded, Hermione realized she'd been so gripped by its unfolding she hadn't even noticed the real Lucius standing beside her, or how he might be reacting to the memory. She snuck a glance and saw an immense sorrow on his face of which she immediately regretted catching a glimpse, for it seemed inordinately private. She turned away in silence, allowing him time with his misery.

After a minute or perhaps two, he spoke quietly.

"Why would Shacklebolt directly question Draco's ability to testify regarding Narcissa's murder?"

She turned to him, feeling hope through investigation, through the use of intellect and evidence, and looking for it in his face.

"That isn't his job," he said softly, regarding her intently, perhaps wanting her to agree or weigh in or help him feel like he wasn't crazy for wondering.

"No, that should have been the concern of the wizegamot," she replied. "And only the wizegamot."

"Why did Draco's behavior set him off like that?" He looked a little shattered, but at least he was doing something productive by questioning with some rationality what had happened.

"It was a messy time," Hermione replied with a slight shrug. "Wasn't it?"

Lucius broke from her gaze and cast his eyes aside.

"Not that that explains any of this," added Hermione quickly.

He looked back at her as if he needed her. As if she was his only hope in finding these answers. As if he couldn't do it alone because his knowledge wouldn't be enough, he needed her to make it real, because she was real and he was not. At least, he wasn't supposed to be real; he was supposed to be dead and his hands were as tied as a dead man's hands. To be needed in such a way was so compelling that Hermione had to temper herself not to thrill in it, nor to let herself grow accustomed to it.

If she had to become his hands, if she had to become real where he was not, if she had to become his strength and protector, she would do so, because no one deserved what his family had received, regardless of what they did in the past. So she approached him, willing him to take courage, and said, "Let's go back further."

He replied with a nod.

*flip*

The memories flipped back, to a night dark and chaotic, with lights and blood and aurors and Malfoy Manor, two men in death eater robes tangled in house magic, and a crumpled form on the floor, covered in a white sheet.

Draco knelt on the floor, already mad.

"Is this your wand?" asked Lucius in auror's robes.

"Father, is it you?" asked Draco, and the auror-Lucius stepped back, looking horrified.

"Can you go back, Lucius?" asked Hermione, touching the real Lucius' arm gently. He broke from his sober regard of the proceedings, and then nodded silently.

*flip*

White.

*flip*

A brief flash of color, then white again.

*flip*

A jerking moment, then white.

*flip*

The same, and the same again.

"No," said Lucius, and he tried flipping back more and more. "I need to know this!"

Hermione gently touched Lucius' shoulder.

"Where is it? Where are his memories?" asked Lucius, flipping.

"Wait," she said, his voice of reason. He trembled under her hand, but he obeyed her. "They're there. They've been blocked."

Lucius covered his face with his hands. It seemed to have been too much for him to observe Draco's life of madness since the accident, and he lingered, stiff and still, his face in his hands and his breathing labored. Hermione didn't know what to do. He was on the cusp of shattering into a million pieces and it was in front of her, in this place that wasn't a place, the empty white blocked memories of Draco Malfoy.

"Oh, gods," exhaled Lucius, shaking, struggling with himself. "Oh, gods," he whispered.

He appeared to use every strength he possessed to bring it all together again, to draw himself back in and to calm the roiling storm that threatened him and his desperate, wavering control. She dared not touch him for fear that it would somehow send him over the edge, and for fear that he would blame her for sending him over the edge.

So she waited patiently.

To the credit of his depth of willpower, he managed it, slowly, and she allowed him the time to regain his regular shellac, and, as a gift to him, pretended nothing at all was out of the ordinary. She wondered if it was her imagination that he treated her with a touch more respect and admiration afterwards.

"Hermione," he said, his inflection of her name warm and invoking a thousand colors. "What shall we do?"

"We've done all we can do here, Lucius," she replied gently, and then added with emphasis: "For now."

-oOo—

Sneaking back out of St. Mungo's had been easy enough, and they left the keys with the potted plant for safekeeping. It was probable that St. Mungo's psychiatric ward didn't have many intruders, because resistance to their intrusion had been negligible. Upon their return to Malfoy Manor, however, Lucius trusted nothing and no one, assuming the manor would be, at the very least, warded, and more probably, watched.

"We will go in through the back entrance," said Lucius gravely, pulling out a portkey she'd never seen before. This man was positively lousy with portkeys.

They teleported somewhere she hadn't been before, but after a few moments she realized she'd gazed at this place a number of times out of the windows of the manor, rising green off into the distance past the main manor grounds. In the side of the hill was a stone door which gave easily at Lucius' touch, and within was utter darkness.

"_Luminos!" _said Lucius, his wand lighting a passageway most likely meant for exactly this sort of clandestine entrance or escape. They walked until they came to a small basement-sort-of room, with some less-than-perfect pieces of furniture, and then Lucius called the house elf.

Porgy appeared in a poof.

"Sir, you've returned," said Porgy, as if that was unexpected or perhaps inadvisable.

"Is anyone watching the place?" asked Lucius.

"There was, but they left hours ago," said the elf.

"They're probably just acting on a hunch, then," said Hermione with a sigh of relief.

"Perhaps," said Lucius. "Have they erected any wards on the property?"

"Yes sir," said Porgy. "They'll know if anyone enters or leaves the front gate."

"Basic," said Hermione, and she almost laughed with delight over how little the Ministry or-whoever knew. "Easily thwarted, Lucius, this is fantastic news!"

Lucius only gave her a grim smile. "You and Luna will need to enter and leave at the appropriate, normal, expected times through that gate. And you need something to show for all of the 'work' you're supposedly doing here."

He exhaled and put his hands on his hips as if thinking. After a moment, he glanced at Hermione and then said, as if relenting something, "Come along, to the library."

"Yes?" asked Hermione, feeling a bit excited despite lack of sleep. Was Lucius about to show her his best books? Was this maybe the best thing that had happened to her all year?

"Yes, of course," he replied as if she was being slow. "And Porgy, prepare something for us to eat, please."

Along the way to the library, through the halls and rooms, Lucius lit every candle and lamp, bringing a glow and life with every step he took, swallowing the darkness and declaring his place as the Lord of this Manor. Hermione had not yet observed Lucius take charge of his house like this, and she decided it was a good look for him. Definitely. Or maybe she was just excited about the impending library books.

The repast prepared by Porgy was eloquent, if food could be eloquent. He was a well-trained elf, despite being new to the premises, and Hermione had to pinch herself to recall he was actually being paid so that she didn't feel outrage over his treatment. It was a knee-jerk reaction, really, for her to feel outrage over elves' treatment, despite the fact that elves had been treated normally enough for over a decade, now. Often they didn't even refer to themselves in third person, anymore. It was a docile, docile new world and here she was eating pate with a relic of the old world. Lucius seemed to be adjusting decently, however. She hadn't seen him _Avada Kedavra _a single person yet since he arrived. She had begun to suspect he was a man who could quickly and efficiently adjust and adapt to new circumstances to suit his best interest. Like that was some sort of _talent. _Quick-adaptation. A chameleon, or, better yet, a shape-shifter who could take the form of a housecat or a ferocious dragon, depending upon if it suited him that day. This quicksilver nature always kept her on edge.

"Yes?" inquired Lucius, after a bite of honeydew.

Hermione realized she'd been studying him while embroiled in her thoughts.

"Ahem," she recovered, poorly. "So how do you like 2015?" Then she quickly shoved a croissant in her mouth so he couldn't ask her any questions.

"Well," he said, considering, but also regarding her behavior, and probably _judging_, "Everything seems calmer, and safer. Whatever trouble it is we're stirring up is probably the most anyone's caused in ages. The Ministry is sloppy and slow, probably due to inactivity and lack of threats. Also, you seem considerably more neurotic."

She "mmph"-ed a protest through her croissant, and a faint shadow of amusement flitted across him.

"But then again, I didn't know you back then, really, now, did I?" he smiled indulgently, as if that's what she was going to say, which it _was_, but anyway: "Regardless," he waved a hand as if it mattered not. "I haven't had enough chance to observe what is really happening around the wizarding world, alas, to make a decent response to your question. I can only make assumptions."

"Although, if I were an ambitious man," he said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table between them. "I daresay the atmosphere seems to be right for turning much to my advantage."

He gave her a glance, perhaps to gauge her response.

"Well, you don't have to glower at me," he said, laughing quietly.

She didn't realize she'd been glowering.

"Well, what do you mean, what would you turn to your advantage?" she asked.

To this he shrugged vaguely.

"Oh, come on, Lucius," she said, giving him a look.

"How can I even say?" he asked. "One takes opportunities as they come, but one doesn't always know what those opportunities will be. If you're dead set on something specific in life, chances are you're going to end up disappointed. Living well is an exercise of concepts, not specifics."

"Oh what do you know about living well," she said, brushing an errant croissant crumb off of the tablecloth.

"Some," he said mildly, growing quiet until she felt like she had to fill up the space.

She rested her elbows on the table, let out a sigh, and then, regarding Lucius, she said, "You always seemed to have all the answers. Mind you, the wrong, most terrible sort of answers, but it felt like nothing could stop you… until Azkaban, that is."

"Mn," he said. "I prefer not to think about Azkaban."

"Understandable," she said. "But even since you've come here to unfamiliar circumstances you rarely seem uneasy."

"Control," he replied.

"And despite the fact that I know you're taking everything in and I _know_ you have observations, a multitude of them, you rarely speak your mind," she said.

"I keep as much as I can close to the chest," he said.

"For options," she said. "You want options."

"And freedom," he said.

"And opportunity," she said.

"You understand me so well," he replied, appearing amused, and perhaps, maybe, somewhat pleased.

Hermione drew a breath and stood, moving to look over the books on a nearby shelf.

"Oh, no, those are boring," he said, standing as well and tossing his napkin on the table. "Come on."

He beckoned to her and the moved through the library to a back wall. She side-eyed him.

"Do you have a secret door?" she asked.

"Is that even a question you're asking?" he asked, pulling out three books and flipping a switch in the space behind them. There was a very typical-of-secret-door sound of stone grinding against stone, and the door collapsed inward, shifting to the side and out of the way.

"_Luminos!" _

Once the sconces were lit, a narrow winding stair was revealed to fill the passageway which led upward and out of sight.

"This must be the inside of one of those turrets!" said Hermione.

"Go on, then, those stairs aren't going to climb themselves," he said.

She scurried in and up because _how delightful. _At the top was a small room, circular as the turret's shape, with small windows set on either side and with shelves interspersed throughout. The shelves held her most favorite thing in the world: books that appeared to be both super-rare and extra-magical.

She drew in a breath and when she let it out, she might have whimpered. Then she pounced.

"_Unicorns of the Mediterranean… 98 Tricks to Cursing_…" she pulled them out one after another, breathless, and then gasped: "_The Essential History of Caring for Dragons_! Lucius, how can this be? How did you get all of these?"

Lucius had finally caught up with her and sat down in a comfortable-looking chair.

"I thought you knew I was a collector," he replied, and then watching her, added: "Be careful with some of those. They can be trapped. Or angry."

"Ah, ha-hah. Yes," she said, dropping a suddenly-voracious book, perhaps equal to her own voraciousness. It growled on the floor. "How shall I handle this one?" she asked.

"There's a poker over there," he said with a little smile, pointing to an old iron poker leaning against the stones of the wall. "You only have to assert your dominance and it will heel," he said, as if that was the easiest thing in the world.

She might have been giving him a look as if he were crazy as she went for the poker, but she did it anyway, hefting the ancient piece of iron in her hand like a sword, or perhaps an extra-heavy wand. He nodded to her encouragingly, which she found entirely unnecessary, for she was capable of bringing irritable books under control just fine on her own. Maybe.

The book snarled. She poked at it with the poker, and it tried to _bite _the poker, and so she poked at it and sparred _with a book_ for the better part of two (possibly hilarious) minutes until she'd pinned it down, poker-tip-to-cover-center, and it couldn't open at all, only whimper-growl. It reminded her of something back at Hogwarts, and so she pulled out her wand and cried, "_Petrificus Totalus!" _

The book went still and she grabbed it, binding it physically with one of the rope-like curtain tie-backs, then tossed it on the faded rug at Lucius' feet.

"There," she said. "Subdued."

It was then that she observed Lucius, whose lips were curled into an amused, yet wholly intrigued, smile.

-oOo-

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Do these people ever sleep? No, it seems, they do not. If only I possessed their amazing not-sleeping powers. If only. Also, I want a house elf please. **

**This chapter would probably have been at least 1000 words longer but I ran out of time! I wanted to put it out by tonight, and welp, time waits for no man and/or fanfiction writer! I'll just put the rest of the library bits in the next chapter. Enjoy! **


	15. Librarianial Subterfuge

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LIBRARIANIAL SUBTERFUGE

Finding herself unable to _not_ cock her head to the side, she inquired, "What is that smile on your face?" and she was forced to admit it wasn't very subtle or svelte at all, because she was literally asking the exact thing that had popped into her mind.

"What do you mean, what is it?" he asked, calmly, as if making conversation.

"I haven't seen that particular sort of smile on your face before," she replied. These were the sorts of conversations that occurred at whatever horrible time in the middle of the night it was.

"Have you ever seen it on anyone else's face before?" he asked.

She had to stop and think about that, because it was very difficult to translate the exact nuances of one person's face into the multitude of all smiles on all faces that one had observed in one's lifetime. She came up short.

"Not really," she said. "You don't smile like anyone else I know, because I always expect there's something else behind it with you besides just smiling. All of your smiles I remember from Hogwarts were the terrible sort."

"The terrible sort?" he asked, while picking up a non-attacksome book, and only inquiring to keep her going on, as he was clearly interested in the subject but didn't seem to want to act _too_ interested.

"It seemed to me, whilst a student at Hogwarts, that if you were smiling, it meant something bad was going to happen to me or my friends, or sometime I cared about," she said, surprising herself at her candor. Had she become this comfortable with Lucius Malfoy? "That seemed to be the only sort of thing that could make you smile. If you were scowling, it meant we were winning. If you were smiling, it meant you were winning, and by default, Voldemort was winning."

Lucius seemed to almost wince, but he didn't. It was subtle, like him. He turned to look at one of the small windows, perhaps to view the diamond-and-navy sky, and he still held a book in his hands. Hermione moved to the window and wrestled with the rusty hitch until she could throw it open. The opening was small, but crisp, fresh air seeped into the round room.

"Are you trying to freeze us out?" he asked.

She smiled at him and said, "Oh, look. Dawn is upon us."

"Your smiles meant the same for me, you know," he said, rising to view the distant pink hue, barely creeping on the horizon. "Except opposite, of course. That's how wars work, Miss Granger."

"Oh, how very condescending, Mr. Malfoy," she said, though she enjoyed the scent of the coming morning.

He then looked at her for a moment, and she wondered what was on his mind, though, at this late/early hour, she refused to ask.

"You need to rest," he said, strangely concerned for her well-being.

"I suppose so," she said, feeling quite in agreement.

"I'll have Porgy prepare a room," he said.

"Here?" she asked, surprised. "You want me to stay here?"

He only hesitated a beat.

"It would be most convenient, wouldn't it?" he asked, turning away to put the book in his hand onto a shelf. "You needn't waste time going home at this hour. You're due to walk through the front gates by at least mid-morning."

"Yes, but my clothes and my things-," she began as he clapped once, completely ignored her, and called the house elf.

"Yes, sir?" asked Porgy lugubriously, eyeing the open window.

"Prepare a room for Miss Granger, please, she requires rest," he ordered. "And provide her with everything she needs in order to arrive at the front gates by ten o'clock completely refreshed."

"Ah, yes, sir," the elf said. "Porgy will prepare the blue guest room straight away, sir. She can come at her convenience."

"Thank you," replied Lucius, turning to one of the bookshelves, the elf already forgotten as it popped away. He started pulling books off of a shelf here or there.

"Miss Granger," he said.

"Yes?" she replied, drawing closer.

"Here," he said, handing her an armful of books. "Take these to your room. I think you'll enjoy them."

She was, actually, pretty flattered, and she probably really would enjoy the books he chose, but there was always room to question anything he might say. Always.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, eyeing the books in her arms critically. "I don't necessarily enjoy _everything_ in a book, you know."

"You'll like them," he said, taking out Narcissa's wand and lighting the room more brightly. The light pulsed into a bright ball and he let it hover before them as he latched the window shut and then made for the winding stair.

They took their time getting to the blue guest room, or what she suspected might be the Grand Malfoy Blue Guest Room, since Lucius made every opportunity along the way to explain to her the histories and geneaologies of each portrait, art piece, trophy, magical chalice (there were many of these), house damage (also many), and rug along the way. She supposed he was giving the house elf time to get things ready, but it was actually ridiculously fascinating, as the house had such immense and diverse familial history within its walls.

"Lucius," she meandered, after hearing about a particularly nasty wand-fight between two warring brothers which gouged a mark through the wainscoting of the Grand Malfoy Main Hallway - West Wing. "Has it ever occurred to you that the atmosphere within your house could be described as, well, heavy?"

"Heavy in what way?" asked Lucius, seemingly unconcerned, and almost as if he was humoring her by responding to her question, while he continued towards their final destination.

How to express it?

"In the midst of summer or winter, there is a point when there have been many days that were the same, and the sky has looked the same, and the temperature has been the same, and it seems as if it will never change. Things grow restless and heavy and there is a general feeling of discontent, and an itch for change," she said.

"Are you saying my house wishes to change, Miss Granger?" he asked, seeming almost amused by her metaphor.

"I certainly can't speak for your house," she said.

They went on in silence for a moment.

"But I can feel something here," she said into that silence.

"Can you?" he replied.

"Maybe," she said, less confident.

"Whatever the feeling here may or may not be," he said, "I have to admit that I have grown up within its walls and thus am wholly accustomed to it. As a result, perhaps I am immune to discerning it."

It felt very strange to have Lucius admit to possibly not knowing something as well as she did about his house. Perhaps he was getting more comfortable around her?

"My house growing up, of course, wasn't very old at all. Or heavy. It was just a regular house that felt like our own. It was small. At least, it was small compared to this!" She laughed at the absurd difference in size between her own decent but modest childhood home and this monstrosity of wizard nobility.

"I would imagine most houses would be small in comparison," he said, though it wasn't a prideful statement. Just a statement of fact. His ridiculous Malfoy wealth was nothing but cold, hard fact.

Hermione cleared her throat and just felt weird. This was not the world that, as a child, she ever assumed she would access, or that she assumed existed at all.

"Here is your room," he said, opening the door to a decently large, possibly grand, guest room which lived up to the "Blue" part of its name due to deep blue curtains framing a poster bed which looked to be walnut, and the same sort of curtains covered a shrouded window. The rest of the furniture, probably whatever she might need and more than she might need, was the same dark wood as the bed, and through a side door she could see white tiles and part of a washbasin. It looked comfortable, which, of course, filled her with an immense level of guilt.

"Ah, really, Lucius," she said. "This is too much. Couldn't I just crash on a couch or something?"

Lucius snorted and turned to leave.

"What?" she asked.

He didn't answer, but he glanced approvingly over the room once.

"The elf did a fine job, didn't he?" he asked.

She was caught off-guard by the change of subject, but had to agree that, yes, on such short notice, the elf certainly did do a fine job.

"So enjoy it," he said simply.

"Fine," she replied. "I will."

"Good," he said, and then made for the hall. Once through the threshold, he stopped and added, "I can have Porgy ward your door, if you wish."

Hermione blinked.

"I'm sure you're capable of doing it yourself, but there are so many wards on the manor proper you probably would rather not mix magics, as that can get volatile and unpredictable," he said, as if this was a normal conversation.

"Do you expect, um, some kind of attack in the early morning?" she asked.

"No, I just assumed, considering the number of wards you erected on your door the night at your flat," he replied.

Oh, _that. _She recalled the physical as well as magical locks she lumped all over her door the night Lucius stayed in her flat, as well as the vague expression of offense he took at the level to which she didn't trust him then, and then she realized what he was doing now. He was subtly gauging how much she trusted him, now, compared to back then, and that made her suddenly wonder why he wanted to know. It was possible he was so offended by it back then that he either wanted an apology or assurance that he'd come to earn her trust to a degree. And had he? Had he earned her trust? As she thought about it, he had, somehow, in some way or ways, gained it. Through all of their inquiries and investigations and adventures, somewhere along the way, she had forgotten to be afraid of him. But how to reply? Evasive seemed easiest.

"Oh, well," she said, as if it mattered not, "If you want, that's fine."

He seemed confused by her reply and she tried not to find that funny.

"Yes, well," he replied. "Yes. Good night."

"Morning."

"I knew that."

He left like a shadow. A slightly confused, and maybe a little sullen, shadow.

-oOo—

Something was nagging at her. She wanted to ignore it and stay in warm oblivion, yet it persisted. How very, very annoying it was! Couldn't whatever it was see that she just wanted to be left alone forever? But yet it wouldn't go away, and it dragged her, slowly, towards cognizance.

"Miss Granger."

Oh, that was her name.

"Miss Granger," said the voice, continuous and ever-prodding.

"What?" she mumbled, wholly resisting the idea of opening her eyes ever again.

"Miss Granger, it's time," said the voice, which was the voice of an elf. The house elf. The one she got for Lucius Malfoy. But what was it doing in her flat? Why would it be in her- oh, wait. She opened her eyes suddenly, the realization she'd slept in Malfoy Manor dawning on her like a cold bucket of water dumped on her head. It just felt a little too familiar, or something like that.

Maybe it was that she couldn't seem to wrap her arms around the idea of being comfortable enough with the manor to so _blissfully_ sleep in it. There was a vague sense of guilt she got from the realization, like she shouldn't ever, _ever_ feel comfortable here, because this was a terrible place wherein lived terrible people that she should never, no never, forgive. It would take some introspection to analyze why she was programmed that particular way, but she was pretty sure it had something to do with Bellatrix Lestrange and a fair number of _crucios _tossed in Hermione's general vicinity.

She shuddered at the recollection, but there was comfort to be taken in the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange was dead, most likely, seeing as how everyone saw her dead at the end of the war, and she found herself wondering how Lucius felt about that, and about the behavior of his sister-in-law in general. Strangely enough, after so much time spent with Mr. Malfoy, Hermione almost felt as if she could predict how Lucius might feel about Bellatrix: messy (surely he hated that), unpredictable (that probably often made him uncomfortable), passionate about her work (he probably used that to his advantage), and invariably loyal to Voldemort (he probably appreciated the simplicity).

All in all, it was likely that while Bellatrix wasn't his first choice of allies, she had her uses. Because Lucius used everyone. Even Hermione. Especially Hermione. She suddenly felt annoyed.

"Ah, Miss Granger, you're awake," said Porgy, having already cast open the drapes and let in an ungodly amount of brightness into the room. What time was it, sunlight-o-clock? "Your things are there, and you've just enough time to freshen up and go out the underground way in order to walk through the gates at a very respectable ten o'clock."

"Gnh," she replied, sitting up and looking around for 'her things'. There they were, laid out for her on a nearby chair, and she had no idea how Porgy got ahold of them. Also, she had to wonder about how the house elf went about choosing what from her wardrobe to provide. There was a high-waisted grey pencil skirt, a pale blue button-front blouse, and a pair of dark heels. Not what she would normally wear, unless she was meeting with someone important. She became suspicious of Lucius Malfoy's meddling. At least the heels were sensible. She threw the covers off and made for the loo.

"Breakfast will be waiting for you when you arrive through the gates," said Porgy, and the elf went scarce.

They must have all assumed she would remember the back way out of the manor, and she did, but still. Not everyone would remember how to get out through the labyrinth and the back door. Passing near the lower levels of Malfoy Manor alone wasn't something she wanted to do again anytime soon. There was something creepy about the deepest levels of an old house; it was like crawling through the vacuous entrails of a vast creature, maybe a whale, and this was the place from whence the house's life sprung, and the sensations of life in a house was always unsettling. Still she supposed her Gryffindor bravery won out (of course it did), because she made it through without jumping or outwardly admitting to her cowardice in any way. She could at least pretend she wasn't scared of a house.

Outside of the stone door that marked the distant outward back and secret entrance/exit, the world crouched at the verge of spring. The sky was grey and heavy with water, lingering mist haunted the almost-green hills, and the air was thick and heavy with the war of warm and cold. It wasn't the finest of days to be trekking the boggy land in (sensible) heels, but she made it work while making future plans to carry even more sensible shoes with her at future times whilst making this sort of clandestine exit. She didn't have to walk far, anyway, because she merely apparated from there to the front gate.

The black gate hung forbidding in some leftover fog tendrils, but she knew better and passed straight though after a heavy dose of Lucius Malfoy blood applied to her wrist. The derelict grace of the misty front grounds had all become familiar, and not as sad, and kind of beautiful. A crow, perched on the empty rim of an overgrown fountain, disturbed the silence with his flight as she neared. It was very silent. What was the world waiting for?

She found Luna studying the dining room, as usual.

"Well, hello, Luna," she said. "Any trouble from the Ministry?"

"There was a wizard on my porch this morning," she said. "But Neville told him nothing was out of the ordinary."

"Did it work?"

"For now?" replied Luna, not sounding confident. "But tell me if you managed to see Draco!"

"We did," she said, also not sounding confident, but then she proceeded to bring Luna up to speed on Draco's predicament and what she and Lucius found in his mind, and that his memories were being blocked from anything before the night Narcissa was murdered.

"That's terrible! It's just terrible!" cried Luna, ever empathetic.

"Yes, it is I suppose," replied Hermione, feeling as if her empathy was lacking, and sort of hating herself for it. "Luna… the block in Draco's mind… the way it works sort of reminds me of a house ward."

"A house ward… on a man?" asked Luna, seeming both surprised and intrigued by the idea. "How? Why?"

"Well, I suppose it could work, couldn't it?" asked Hermione. "A person and a house, either is like a vessel, isn't it?"

"Huh," replied Luna, thinking.

"But say it is that sort of magic, why would someone use a house ward on a person? What could be the advantage of such a course?" asked Hermione.

Luna considered that, and then said, "Or it could have been a mistake."

Hermione pointed at Luna and said, "Or that."

Porgy came in with a plate of croissants and fruit.

"Breakfast is served," said the elf, once again lugubrious. The plate was deposited on a nearby stand and the house elf made to leave.

"Ah, Porgy?" asked Hermione. "Where is Mr. Malfoy?"

"The master is indisposed," said Porgy.

"He's still sleeping?" asked Hermione incredulously.

"The master requires his rest," said Porgy. How did Lucius manage to train house elves to be so subservient so quickly? Innate talent, she suspected.

"I've been up for an hour! Go get the master and tell him we require his expertise… now," she said.

"He asked not to be disturbed," said Porgy.

"He doesn't have that luxury," replied Hermione.

"The master suspected Miss Granger might be… resistant," said Porgy.

"Go get the master some strong coffee," said Hermione.

Porgy started to look like an elf stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"Ah," ventured Luna, ever the pacifist, "maybe we can just give him a few hours."

Hermione grumbled at Luna, but then turned back to Porgy.

"Fine," she relented. "Go get _me_ some strong coffee."

To that, Porgy thankfully popped away.

"Do you know what would be great?" asked Luna.

"If Lucius got his lazy arse out of bed?" asked Hermione, picking one of Luna's books up off of a side table and opening it.

"No," said Luna, grinning. "No. If I could examine Draco."

"Yes," said Hermione, blinking. "If I'd only brought you instead, last night."

"You needed Mr. Malfoy there," said Luna.

Hermione sighed.

"I wish we could just get Draco out of St. Mungo's and bring him here," said Hermione. "It'd make things so much easier."

"Oh, and that wouldn't elicit any suspicion," said Luna, smiling.

"None at all," grumbled Hermione, flipping thoughtlessly through the pages of the book in her hands. She flipped and flipped, and slowly an idea began to form in her mind. It might have been a crazy idea, a very crazy idea, but it might also have been a brilliant idea.

"Luna," meandered Hermione, not even sure she wanted to voice such an idea, but going on with it anyway. "What if Luciu- _Mr. Malfoy_ were to impersonate a distant Malfoy relative? Nobody knows or would even begin to suspect that he's actually Lucius Malfoy, because the real Lucius Malfoy is supposed to be twenty years older than the one we have!"

"That's a bit of a crazy idea," said Luna, confirming Hermione's suspicions but also said in such a way that inferred Luna was actually thinking about it as being possibly, kind of, sort of valid, maybe.

"He could pose as a distant Malfoy relative from France," said Hermione, in full brainstorming mode. "Do you think he knows French?"

"Of course he does," said Luna.

"Right. What was I thinking," said Hermione. "And if he were to change a few things about his appearance, perhaps wear a different color or something… cut his hair, maybe?"

"You think you can get him to cut his hair?" asked Luna, with a laugh.

Hermione laughed, too.

"That would be quite an accomplishment," she said. "But of course he could grow it out again at his leisure, right? Or instantly with his wand."

She waved a hand as if Lucius' vanity mattered not.

"It would make him less distinguishable as himself, more than any other change," said Hermione. "But the biggest thing about this, if we could pull it off, is that he would be able to claim the Malfoy inheritance, the Manor, and take Draco under his care."

"If it works, that would probably be worth cutting his hair," said Luna.

"Probably," said Hermione with a smirk.

"But would it work? Or would it just ruin everything?" asked Luna.

"Hard to say," said Hermione. "We could test him out at an event."

Luna laughed. "Oh, your wording! 'Test him out'! Poor Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione knew not what Luna meant, for all Hermione was trying to do was solve problems.

At that moment Porgy arrived.

"There are two wizards here to see you, Miss Granger," said Porgy.

Hermione blinked.

"Ah, Ministry business again," said Luna with a sigh, gathering up some books.

Hermione smoothed down her skirt and, after being handed a handful of books from Luna (she didn't even know what books they were), she followed Porgy down the hallway to the Grand Malfoy Foyer, where two wizards were waiting. They were somewhat familiar, being a couple of men working for the Ministry that she'd seen around the building. Not too high up, and that was a good thing.

"Hello," greeted Hermione, coming down the Grand Malfoy Foyer Staircase in a less graceful way than the staircase deserved. She lugged the books over to a side table and plopped them down. She had to hand it to Luna's foresight, hauling those books around was a good prop for appearing like she was doing what she was supposed to be doing here at the manor. "With what can I help you?"

"Good morning, Miss Granger," said the taller of the two, a dark man with an average face. "My name's Grant, and this is Hodges. We're terribly sorry, but we've been sent over to make a report on your progress with your current book project here at the manor."

"Oh?" asked Hermione, behaving as innocently as she was capable, under the circumstances.

"You know how it is with paperwork," said Grant.

"That's funny," said Hermione. "Must be a new policy, as I can't recall such a thing before."

"Probably," said Grant, shrugging and using a self-depreciating smile.

"Do you mind if we ask who is working on the project?" asked the man named Hodges, a shorter man, reminiscent of a badger.

"Mrs. Longbottom and myself," she replied.

"No one else?" asked Hodges.

"Well, we do have a house elf helping us out with the mundanities," said Hermione.

"Yes, of course, but has anyone else been here?" asked Hodges, who was clearly probing for something.

"No, why?" asked Hermione.

"Well," said Hodges.

Grant cleared his throat. "Ah," he said, "Miss Granger, it's the strangest thing."

"Is it?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," he said, leaning over, as if someone besides her, himself, and Hodges would overhear, "The Ministry has detected a faint trace of … well, I know it sounds crazy, but _Lucius Malfoy_."

"Detected how?" asked Hermione.

This time Hodges cleared his throat, but Grant gave him a look.

"Miss Granger," said Grant, "the Ministry is showing unusual interest in this case due to some strange anomalies, and they've put a tracking ward on the front gate."

"Grant!" protested Hodges. Clearly Grant wasn't supposed to be telling her these things.

"Oh come now," said Grant. "It's Hermione By-Merlin Granger." She wondered why people tended to add that to her name when stating her veracity. Grant turned back to Hermione and asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about why we might notice a faint trace of Lucius Malfoy passing through the front gate with you, would you?"

"Yes, actually I would," said Hermione, pulling out the flask of Lucius' blood. "This is why."

"Blood?" asked Grant.

"Is that his blood?" asked Hodges. "How can it be?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "It was here, in the potion dungeon. I didn't even know whose it was."

"Why are you carrying it with you?" asked Grant, maybe disturbed.

Hermione glanced around and said, "A particularly nasty ward would kill me without it." She smiled at Grant and said, "You know how it is."

Grant probably didn't know how it was, but he agreed readily. Maybe he was a Hermione By-Merlin Granger fan?

"Thank goodness Luna discovered how to solve the problem in time," she said with a smile. "So there you go. Problem solved."

"That's good to know," said Hodges. "We were concerned the ghost of Lucius Malfoy might be haunting the place. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"Strangely enough, I haven't seen a single ghost," said Hermione, becoming wildly adept at telling the truth without telling the truth. "You'd think this old house would have at least one, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed that is strange," said Grant, looking around. "The house elf has done well at cleaning it up, hasn't it?"

Hermione smiled. "It's definitely made it a much more pleasant place to work. And did you know house elves are very good at navigating wards?"

"We have just a few inquiries into your work so we can fill out these papers," said Hodges, pulling out a scroll and a quill, "So if you don't mind showing us your workspace?"

She didn't so much, assuming Lucius would still be scarce and indisposed in his rooms, and so she showed them the library (minus the extra special room in the gable), and Luna in the dining room under the premise that she was studying the magical residues there, which she was, but Hermione left out the part about _why_ she was studying the dining room's magical residues.

"I've never been in a house with so many wards on it, you know?" said Luna with her general affable and dreamy smile.

"Is that so?" asked Hodges.

"Definitely," said Hermione. "I've personally almost died twice."

"Oh my," said Grant, glancing around nervously.

"It's been very illuminating," said Hermione with a smile.

"There's that old Gryffindor bravery at work," said Hodges, his tone jolly.

"I suppose," said Hermione, feeling awkward. She didn't feel very Gryffindorian right now. She felt downright Slytherinian.

"Well, thank you ladies," said Grant as Hodges rolled the parchment back up and tied it with a bow.

"I'll walk you out," Hermione said as congenially as she could muster.

The Grand Malfoy Entranceway was a double door with ornate, somewhat macabre, carvings etched into the finest wood. She held the door open for Grant and Hodges so they could go back out into the damp, cool world, but Grant hesitated on the threshold.

"Miss Granger, will you be at the spring ball?" he asked her. Oh, that. The Ministry's Spring Ball, held yearly at, well, the _spring equinox_. Pagan holidays and what. It went with the territory. She smiled, and hoped her smile didn't look fake.

"Oh, that's coming up, isn't it?" she said. "To be honest I hadn't given it a second thought, I've been so embroiled in work."

"You should give it a thought," he said, smiling at her.

She blinked, maybe a little side-blinded, and said, "Okay."

"Good morning, then," he said pleasantly, leaving the threshold and stepping onto the wet, unraveled paving stones of the Malfoy front-yard.

Hermione watched them leave, going over and over in her mind the events of their visit to discern whether she'd made any mistakes or if there was anything that happened that would indicate disaster. Disaster was always a step away, these days. At last, she turned away and exhaled as she shut the massive front door and leaned against its sturdy wood. A quiet groan escaped her and she pulled out the vial of Malfoy blood. It was warm, having been close in her pocket all morning.

It was then that she gave a thought to the Ministry's spring ball, as per Grant's suggestion.

What if that were the event wherewith to test Lucius Malfoy's distant French cousin?

For a brief moment it occurred to her that she might be getting ahead of herself, seeing as how she hadn't even _asked_ Lucius about this entire scheme yet, but then the excitable, adventuresome, _Gryffindorian_ side of her said something like: "Naaah."

She ran up the stairs to find wherever it was Lucius was sleeping with the full intent to ruin his sleep for something far more interesting.


	16. Jacques Malfoi

**_A/N: Thank NaNoWriMo for faster updates! I'm way behind on word count, but writing much faster than usual anyway. Anyone else doing NaNo this year? If so, you can friend me over at and we can annoy each other! My author name is colbycheese. _**

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Jacques Malfoi

"Porgy!" called Hermione as she reached the top of the stairs.

Porgy popped into sight.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" the elf asked politely.

"Where is Mr. Malfoy?"

"The master is indisposed, Miss Granger."

"Yes, I know that, Porgy. Where is he?"

"He is not to be disturbed."

"Porgy!"

"Porgy is following orders like a good house elf," said Porgy.

"But what about my orders?" asked Hermione.

"Porgy does not answer to Miss Granger," said the elf.

"But I'm the one who got you from the Ministry!"

"For Mr. Malfoy," said Porgy.

"Still, that has to count for something!"

Porgy stayed still, very much not revealing the whereabouts of Mr. Malfoy. Hermione groaned loudly.

"Fine! Fine, Porgy! I'll find him myself!"

"Wait!" was Porgy's reply, but Hermione was already halfway down the Grand Malfoy Hall – West Wing Edition.

"Lucius!" called Hermione, passing suits of armor and large, buttressed entrance-spines, flitting across fitted-wood stairs and faded, ornate rugs. Finally she pulled out her wand and yelled "_Accio Malfoy!" _to which there was a resounding bump against the third door on the right.

"Ah-hah!" she exclaimed. "I've found you!"

Throwing open the third door on the right, she was immediately blinded by the light of a hex and a voice proclaiming, "_Stupefy!"_

As she fell to the ground, she realized she really hadn't expected him to hex her.

-oOo—

Hermione's first realization of consciousness was that she was lying on the wood floor, and it was hard. Her second was that she no longer had her wand. She threw herself upright on her elbows and looked around frantically, some leftover residue of war panic rising to the surface within her, probably due to the combination of being wandless and being in Malfoy Manor.

Lucius was sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, leaning his elbow on some papers, and watching her with subtle, patient interest and perhaps some longsuffering.

"Do I look like a chair to you, Miss Granger?" he asked.

She blinked herself into full consciousness.

"No," she replied.

"Do I look, in any way, like an inanimate object?" he asked.

"No," she replied.

"Then whyever would you make the questionable decision to _accio_ me like some kind of lost shoe as if that couldn't, in most cases, though fortunately not this one, cause extreme bodily harm, because I am, in fact, a _person_?" he asked, still deadly patient, though something was starting to show between the cracks, something hot like lava.

"Ahem," said Hermione. "Wow, so that worked?"

Lucius just narrowed his eyes at her.

"Yes, of course it did," she mumbled, remembering the thump against the third door to the right. "But you're fine, right?"

He didn't reply, and instead just continued sitting, one leg crossed with misleading calm over the other, and with narrowed eyes.

She sat up.

"Alright, fine, I won't _accio_ you anymore. But I couldn't find you, and Porgy wasn't helping at all!"

"Porgy was following instructions. You weren't making the elf's life more difficult by trying to get him to disobey his master, were you?"

"You make it sound so bad," she said, frowning. "We needed you, and here you were locked away all day doing who knows what because you certainly weren't going to tell anyone what you were up to, were you? You were just going to let us wonder and have to _deal _with it, because that's what you do. You never tell anyone what's going on, because that's to your _advantage_ and of course everything must be to your ultimate _advantage_, Lucius. That's all that matters."

She'd worked herself up into a fine spirit of agitation and pulled herself up off the floor with a brisk sigh. How many times would she become wholly sick of Lucius Malfoy and his machinations before this mess was through?

Lucius had remained quiet through her diatribe, and so when she looked over she found him with his chin in his palm and his face reflective. Maybe he wasn't even thinking about what she'd just said. Maybe he hadn't even _listened. _

"What happened today?" he asked.

"Two men were sent from the Ministry to check up on our work, but mostly because the vial of your blood was detected when I went through the gate," she said.

"Mn," he replied.

"One of the men actually told me about the Ministry's ward on the gate," she said.

"Oh, that is good news," he said.

"I suppose," she said.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "It's refreshing to work with someone who everyone inherently trusts."

She only scowled at him, as he was clearly using her trustworthiness to manipulate the world.

"I suppose that must be a first for you, mustn't it?" she said, sullenly.

"Depends," he said. "Voldemort and thus his side inherently trusted Bellatrix."

Hermione winced slightly at the woman's name, who would be forever associated with horrible memories. She turned away to take in the room, which was a large, well-furnished sitting room including his desk, and on the far wall, an arch led to another room in which sat a bed and other bedroom-type furnitures. So this was probably his "quarters". There was a lot of black, and silver, and some green and a little blue, and a few splashes of red. Whatever. She hated it, right then.

"Please return my wand," she said, instinctively looking for and locating the door which led out with her eyes.

There was the scuffing of a chair against the floor as Lucius stood up, and as he approached she decided she would deign regard his visage.

With a slow exhale, she turned to look at him, and he was holding out her wand for her, handle extended. Accepting it, the whole process felt too easy.

"If you would like to fight, we certainly can," he then said. "But you did say you would prefer not to."

"To fight," she said right away.

"Yes, that's what I was saying."

"No, but you can't just leave the sentence like that with a 'to' on the end, it's just _dangling_ there, you have to finish it-"

"No I do _not_ have to finish it."

"At least put something at the end!"

"It is acceptable either way!"

"Acceptable to whom?"

"Normal people!"

"Are you implying that I am not normal, Lucius?" she inquired, resisting the urge to accept that she was suddenly full of rage. "Are you implying that _you_ are?"

"_Miss Granger-"_

"Oh, for crying out loud, Lucius," she groaned. _"Call me Hermione."_

"I have," he said, suddenly vaguely defensive.

"Once or twice, and entirely by accident," she said. "That doesn't count."

"What does it matter?" he said, irritated and moving away to return to his desk, as if he had decided that this conversation no longer pleased him and he'd rather be doing something else.

"It matters because as long as you continue to call me 'Miss Granger', I will continue to feel as if you are condescending and treating me like a seventeen year old child at Hogwarts, instead of like a fully capable and possibly extremely brilliant adult who is assisting you and your house with your many, many continual Malfoyesqueian issues."

"Malfoyesqueian?" he asked, somewhere between confused and delighted by the invention.

"Don't change the subject!" she spat.

"Hermione," he suddenly stated from his chair at the desk, his voice and his face reflecting both acquiescence and a darkened challenge. His tone and his compliance took her by surprise, and she fell into silence a second longer than she would have preferred before replying.

"There, that wasn't so hard," she said, casting her eyes aside to lock on the way out. She kind of needed to get out right then, very badly, and she wasn't really sure why, but there was a creeping claustrophobia that was pulling at her and nagging at her to get out of there and go find Luna and do it immediately and-

"Wait," he said, knowing her mind somehow.

"Come find me in the dining room," she said, hastily making for the hall.

"No, wait," he insisted.

He was up and after her faster than she'd ever seen him move, though she didn't actually see him, she mostly heard him and then braced with anticipation for what must suddenly be contact, and that contact was him grasping her arm and the centrifugal force of being turned to face him, and how did her back come to be against the doorframe and why exactly was any of this happening?

"I expected visitors from the Ministry today," he said, explaining to her, his captive audience, "and I knew everything would go more smoothly if it came across as if I didn't exist. Despite my blood, it did come across that way, and now the Ministry suspects less than it did last night, or one can hope. I even dressed you for the occasion, so as to elicit respect and attractiveness, both equally disarming for men and intimidating for women, depending upon who the Ministry sent, but I expected men. I was correct on all counts, and thus you should probably proceed to compliment my foresight."

"At this time, I would prefer not to compliment your foresight, Mr. Malfoy," she said to him, testing the give in his grasp, but finding very little.

"Surely a reasonable woman such as yourself should recognize and voice the value of such foresight in a case such as this, Miss Granger," he replied, unrelenting.

"Perhaps reasonably, I should," she rejoined, "but I would rather not."

"Might I inquire as to your motivation?"

"Spite."

His hand tightened on her arm, like the testing, anticipatory grasp one makes on a broadsword just before one charges into battle.

"Cut your hair," she blurted out suddenly, stopping him in his tracks.

"What?" he asked, wholly expressing that word to its fullest extent.

"What if you were to cut your hair?" she asked.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Your hair," she said.

"Why are we talking about my hair?"

"Because," she said, "it's your most distinguishing feature."

He gave her a sideways look.

"And if you're going to pass as a distant Malfoy inheritance cousin from France, you'll need to appear at least somewhat unlike yourself," she said.

"Oh, dear Merlin, what on earth are you going on about now?"

She casually leaned her head back against the doorframe and merely said, "Think about it."

It was, in fact, a compliment to Lucius that she thought enough of his intellect and powers of reason that she trusted he was capable of fully working out what she was "going on about" on his own. Whether he would realize it was a compliment or not was his problem.

As she spoke her challenge to him to think, his eyes had immediately shifted to instant mistrust, subtle of course, because this _was_ Lucius, but she knew that look already, and she watched as it blossomed into interest and curiosity, and then faded, glazing into the shuttered machinations of his milling mind. The light of realization beat against the backs of clouded thought, shining through only momentarily once, then twice, before he had it in full blazing sun with clear eyes and all the color of his face; he'd worked it all out, and she hadn't had to explain a thing. She let out a slow, slightly unsteady breath.

"That's insane," he said to her, though without full conviction. "You're insane." He said that with slightly more conviction.

She couldn't help but smile at him, because, good _grief_, it had been such a pleasure to watch him think.

"You do speak French, don't you?" she asked.

"Je suis ennuyé par votre demande," he replied.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," she said.

"No, no," he said, pulling her in a little with his hand, which was still 'round her arm, "Listen. It's too risky. They've just discovered my blood at the gates, who's to say they won't have a similar charm at the ball, immediately rooting me out? It's impossible, I say."

"Simple. They're mistaken. That blood isn't Lucius Malfoy's at all. It's just _strikingly similar, _since it belongs to his second cousin, Jacques Malfoi. Of _France_, naturally," she said.

"Jacques," he replied, totally blandly.

She gave him a lopsided smile.

"How very creative,-," he began, and he stopped, and she knew he was stuck just before saying her name, and somehow he couldn't say it. He released her arm and disengaged, averting his attention and then clearing his throat.

"Who could possibly think it is you?" she asked. "You've not aged a day in twenty years, and everyone believes you're dead. Nothing like this has ever happened before, Lucius. It wouldn't take much to suspend everyone's disbelief, especially if you were, I don't know, _nice_."

He glanced sharply at her.

She spread her hands apologetically and said, "Just think of it as another method to get what you want."

He groaned and turned away, moving to the desk, where he could reside with his safety nest of papers, but she wasn't going to let him.

"Lucius-," she began, but he spoke.

"One could suspect you are trying to reform me," he said.

"How could one manage such a thing?" she choked.

"One could suspect manipulation," he said, picking up a stack of parchment.

"Yes, one certainly could, couldn't one!" she said. "One could suspect manipulation pretty much _all the time_. Every day, all of the day."

She hoped it was super-duper crystal clear she was talking about_ him _doing the manipulating, not _her. _Because she didn't manipulate! She just … did things. Or, at least, she didn't think she did the manipulating. Maybe she did and she didn't know it. Now this was getting complicated.

"Look," she said, "I'm not manipulating you, at least not to reform you, at least not consciously. I'm finding solutions to your problems. I think. Is that enough?"

"I wonder if…," he began, holding the stack of papers, yet ignoring them in his deep thought, "Do you think that if I manage to go back to my own time, that this timeline will reset?"

"Oh," she said, considering the implications of such a thing.

"Do you think that none of this will have happened and it will be erased from existence?" he asked, looking at her.

"Wow," she said, both finding the idea alarming and intriguing and alarming and back to intriguing in some kind of oscillating brain seizure. "I don't know," she finally said.

"It makes sense, doesn't it? Because how could any of this happen again, if I go back and right what went wrong before it can go wrong?" he asked.

"It… wouldn't," she said.

"But I would imagine I would retain my memories of it happening, wouldn't I?" he considered. "I would have to."

"To retain them," she quietly corrected, completing his sentence, because she just _had_ to. Rather, it was a thing of which she had to do.

He very nearly rolled his eyes at her, but he didn't, to his credit.

"Well," she said, clearing her throat, "In my time at Hogwarts using a time turner that is how it worked. There can only be one true timeline. At least, one timeline in which you and your specific, singular consciousness exist. And if in that timeline, you were to go back in time and stop the process occurring which sent you here, then, for example, the Hermione Granger from that 1998 would never experience incessant wrangling with Lucius Malfoy and his mysterious house in 2015."

"Well then, isn't that good news for you?" he said, wryly.

She began to reply but was stopped by a surge of unfamiliar internal panic over the idea of losing everything she'd learned and experienced over the past few weeks, and perhaps even it was accentuated by the idea of losing her familiarity with Lucius, because, yes, he was interesting.

"I … suppose," she said, casting her eyes aside to avoid contact with his.

There was a weighted moment.

"Of course it is," she said, "I mean it isn't, because I don't like the idea of losing memories, not at all, especially when the memories and experiences have been very… um… well, _illuminating_. Possibly slightly life-changing."

She didn't care to look to see what the expression on his face might be.

"But it doesn't matter, it doesn't change our goal at all, of course," she said. "What is important is restoring your family and setting right that which went wrong. Someone is responsible for the general destruction of the Malfoy name – besides your own evildoing, of course, which didn't help, but we can discuss that later, stop looking at me like that – _regardless, _someone has destroyed your family and we are going to find out who or what it was, and then we're going to politely ask your house to send you back to fix it, and whatever memories or experiences I lose are worth it to repair it. As long as you don't meddle with my life in the past, everything should be quite similar to how it ended up. Just promise not to have me murdered to stop me from becoming the grammar-mad abomination I am now. I kind of like who I am, and no, everything isn't perfect, but when is everything ever perfect?"

"Everything is never perfect," he replied, "And I promise not to have you murdered. How could I extinguish something so unique and irreplaceable?"

There was something resembling fondness toward her on his face and it made her decidedly uncomfortable.

"So," she said, forging on, "you know what that means, right?"

"What does it mean?"

"It means that whatever you do here, if we are successful in sending you back, will only have consequences in your own memories. All that matters is that we succeed."

"You're right," he said.

"And so what does it matter if you impersonate a pleasant, non-evil –stop looking at me like that—_Malfoi_ in order to get the result you require, which is Draco out of St. Mungo's and here where Luna can remove the strange ward on his body and restore his memories, thus giving you the answers to who or what killed Narcissa and be given your house's permission to go back in time and stop it from happening in the first place?" she asked.

"I suppose in the end it will be only I who is aware of my abject shame over behaving like an imbecile," he replied.

"Oh, please," she laughed. "Shame? Really? You do, after all have to pass as a Malfoy relative, so I'm certain you can behave almost just like yourself. If you believe that to be imbecilic, then just remember it's you that said it, not I. No, I think you just have to do something unexpected."

"Like what?" he asked, letting her snide slide.

She thought for a moment.

"Oh!" she said. "I know! You can take a muggleborn to the Ministry's Spring Ball. That's something Lucius Malfoy would _never do. _Never, ever. He would simply _die_ first, before being sullied with such incendious _filth._"

She really played that up, but hey, she was kinda bitter.

"Or, _more reasonably_, he never would because he is already married to a pureblooded witch," was his reply. "And he tends not to go in for overt affairs. Too many loose ends and possibilities for blackmail and/or extortions."

"Don't even begin to pretend that my reasons and your reasons aren't _both_ true," she said, ready to, who knows, maybe punch him in the nose if he pretended he hadn't always been the world's second-biggest bigot (after Voldemort, naturally).

He didn't admit it, because perhaps he preferred to keep his silence on the matter, but he didn't deny it, and a raised eyebrow showed he'd let it pass. _Whatever, moving on. _

"And, though I'm very sorry to bring this up, I really am," she said, secretly congratulating herself on showing at least some empathy, "but Lucius Malfoy is a widower, and has been for a very long time."

He took that in momentarily, and a certain sorrow passed through his features, sinking in and imprinting itself on his bones. Maybe this was the first time he'd allowed himself to realize what he was, and he clearly didn't like it. It seemed to her that Lucius Malfoy didn't at all like the thought of not being married, despite whether or not that marriage was "good" or "terrible" or "middling" or whatever descriptive terms people might use to describe marriages. She didn't know, obviously.

"Yes, well," he said after a moment, his words heavy. "That is all relative to one's perception of time."

A fine point. He could still be not-a-widower, depending upon what Time decided to do with him.

But he would be married in a terrible marriage.

Yet… he seemed to strongly prefer that terrible marriage to not-marriage.

There was so much to figure out about this man.

Why would he want to be in a terrible marriage with someone? What is the motivation? Political? Social? Political-social? Did he love Narcissa but she didn't love him? Did she love him and he didn't love her? Did they both equally dislike each other? Narcissa was dead, why was she thinking about her as if she were still alive? What was this flowing time stream doing to her mind?

Was it a marriage of convenience? If so, why did he care so much?

Lucius bland look in her direction made her realize she was doing too much inner-monologuing.

"So," she said, knowing she couldn't ask him any of those questions, as they were far, _far_ too personal. The problem was, those questions were screaming from every corner of her mind, disallowing her from coming up with anything useful to say. She took so long to think that he cordially came in to fill up the spaces.

"Voulez-vous aller au bal de printemps avec Jacques Malfoi?" he asked.

Well, then, she supposed that took care of _that_ debate.

-oOo-

_**A/N: If you can't read a word of French, here are translations: **_

"Je suis ennuyé par votre demande," he replied. = "I am bored by your questions," he replied.

"Voulez-vous aller au bal de printemps avec Jacques Malfoi?" he asked. = "Would you like to go to the Spring Ball with Jacques Malfoi?" he asked.

**_There will be more French at the Ball. Also, my French is middling, so if you are French and my grammar is lousy, please correct me! I love learning about language!_**


	17. Paparazzi

**_A/N: Thanks to NaNoWriMo, I am a writing machine! Enjoy some more of the mystery being unraveled, and remember Thomas? Yeah. He's important. -ish. _**

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: PAPARAZZI

While it was true that she, Hermione Granger, muggleborn, a.k.a. _"mudblood", _a.a.k.a. "The cleverest witch of her age" (questionable) was going to the Ministry's Spring Ball with Lucius Malfoy, and the ulterior motive was to introduce a certain character (played by Lucius Malfoy) named _Jacques Malfoi_ from _Fronce_ (Alsace-Lorraine region, to be exact, for a Frenchman of Germane origin was Jacques, but she was going to try to not to have to be that exact because that would just get messy, still it helped to be prepared for anything, didn't it?) in order to put inheritances of the Malfoy estate in order and reclaim Draco from the Asylum, but the ulterior _ulterior_ motive was to snoop around closer into who it might be that took the Malfoy line down all those years ago, and he was probably in the Ministry, and he was probably rather powerful.

It was also probable that there was an ulterior ulterior _ulterior_ motive, being possessed by Lucius Malfoy, and that was, in the case of failure in their many motives, that he might, in the guise of _Jacques_, begin again to build the wealth and power of Malfoy, Inc. She suspected that this was a motive which lived within every fiber of his being, and would not be extinguished even in death, time travel, or extinction. Someday, when the world was a burnt husk at the event horizon of a black hole and life went on elsewhere in the universe, some measure of matter would live on, somewhere, which served to further the cause of what was once the House of Malfoy. It was a universal force, like gravity, and no one would ever stop it.

That night, after working all day with Lucius and Luna, Hermione actually went home to her flat, but it wasn't without protest from one singular Lucius Malfoy.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay here?" he had asked, sipping Porgy-supplied tea from a priceless-looking teacup, one leg crossed over the other, and his eyes on one of the documents from the Ministry file on his family's demise. So very casual.

"Why would I?" she replied, almost 100% engrossed in packing up her bag, or at least she was good at making it look that way. Also so very casual.

Lucius shrugged or almost-shrugged. Purebloods didn't shrug, but they made an outward indication that brought shrugging to mind without all the plebeian shoulder waggling. "I don't know. Convenience? Safety, perhaps?"

He kept his eyes on the file, flipping a page over.

"I'm good with a ward or two, Lucius," she replied. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Mn," he replied. "Good night, then."

She'd been dismissed.

Instead of accepting said dismissal, however, she'd gone up to him and flicked the back of the document in his hand, making a loud paper-striking noise and causing him to blink.

"Could it be that you don't feel safe unless I'm here…?" she meandered, really, utterly absolutely teasing him. "If you're worried, I could stay…" she began, cut off by the flat look he turned on her.

"Good-night," he said to that.

As she opened the door to her flat, she realized she'd been grinning to herself in recollection. She sort of hated that he was so entertaining. It meant she'd like it less once he was gone. Not that she'd remember.

She sighed.

On the floor was a letter, which apparently had been shoved underneath her door. By an owl? She'd like to witness that.

_Dear Hermione, _

_I've missed you, would you meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at 7?_

_Yours,_

_Thomas_

She could take this one of two ways; either he had dropped the whole adventure and was just pursuing her piecemeal, or he had information and had finally figured out how to be clandestine about it. Still, the Leaky Cauldron? Hadn't she already told him not to meet her there?

Oh well, she supposed she could just make it look like a date, regardless of information being traded. She tossed out a reply to the affirmative and went to the mirror to consider changing her clothes, but she had to admit Lucius really knew how to dress her. Changing wasn't necessary.

The evening was cold for this late in March, and it rained. Her umbrella was enchanted to provide both protection from even the most driving rain and also a bit of warmth, so getting there wasn't a terrible ordeal. Thomas was waiting outside, his own umbrella in hand, and he lightened when he saw her, the fresh blush of spring in his smile.

"Hermione, hi," he said with a vague and sunny, youthful awkwardness, "How are you?"

She couldn't help but smile in return, it was infectious.

"I'm well, how are you, Thomas?" she asked.

They beat a hasty path inside where it was dry and warmer, into a nook which held a little built in bench-seat on either side of a tiny fold-up table on hinges, and a little beeswax candle with a stuttering flame in between them.

Hermione leaned forward over the table.

"So why have you called me out here on such a rainy night?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, no," she said, laughing self-depreciatingly. "No. Don't be sorry."

He smiled and said, "Good."

She adjusted the candle to be exactly in the exact perfect center of the little table.

"So anyway, Hermione," he said with a glance around, "I've, um, noticed some things. At work."

Oh, delightful! It was hard for her to contain her instant interest, because this was the good stuff. He wasn't just asking her out on a date. Why was she relieved?

"I would love to hear about them," she told him, trying to impress on him her trustworthiness with her face. She then noticed a faint sheen of sweat on his temple, and glanced down to see his hands fidget, and so she grabbed his hands in hers, and spoke with candor: "Thomas, maybe, if this looks like a real date, no one will wonder what we're talking about."

He seemed a little relieved, and perhaps comforted by her move. And so, their hands entwined, their postures leant over the table towards each other, they gazed into the others' eyes and betrayed the Ministry.

"Hermione," said Thomas, looking, really, like his world had been shaken and he was nervous and possibly could be defined as 'scared', "I think this is far more serious than we thought."

"Is it?" she asked.

"Much much more. Getting caught would be, ah, really bad."

"Would you start at the beginning?"

Thomas nodded, his hands unconsciously shifting the way he held hers, but she noticed, and she kind of liked it, but that was all beside the point.

"I started by looking for any sort of Azkaban prisoner registry," he said.

"Oh, nice!" said Hermione. Thomas looked at her as if he wondered how she could find anything about this investigation 'nice', and so she tried to look more solemn. Maybe she failed. "Did you find it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "But… the Death Eaters at Narcissa's murder scene aren't in it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm sure. The registry is by date, and there are no Death Eaters sent to Azkaban that day, or that week. No one was sent to Azkaban at all."

"Maybe they didn't record them?" asked Hermione.

"That's what I wondered," said Thomas, his young, sweet, wonderful, innocent face marred with stress that she regretted putting there. "And so I looked further into Azkaban records. Cells, maps, layout, who was where and when they were put there."

Hermione blinked and sat a bit straighter. Now this was just straight up solid researching skills, and Hermione was feeling pretty impressed.

"Go on," she said, squeezing Thomas' hands. He returned the hand-squeezing, but he gave her a dismal shake of his head.

"As far as I can tell, which is a lot actually, it appears as if no one was ever actually sent to Azkaban for Narcissa's murder," he said.

Hermione sat open-mouthed for a moment of processing.

"But why not?" she asked. "Who were the Death Eaters in the pictures?"

"There was no trial," said Thomas quietly. "I tried to find that, too. Mind you, it was while trying to dodge being noticed looking at these things while doing my normal work, and making sure no one knew they were being messed with at all."

"That sounds terrible," said Hermione, feeling a bit of empathy.

Thomas exhaled and said, "I just think I could use a drink."

"Yes, yes," agreed Hermione, and she worked on flagging down a waitress. "Did you manage to tie anyone at the Ministry to all of this … I don't know how to put it… failure to record anything properly?"

"Um," he said, his eyes averting to a coming waitress.

"What can I get you?" asked the clueless waitress.

"Butterbeer, warm," said Hermione.

"Firewhiskey," said Thomas, and Hermione gave him a glance. He must have been more rattled than she thought. Maybe she was rattled, too. Maybe.

"On second thought, mind adding half a firewhiskey shot to that butterbeer? Thanks," said Hermione.

He turned back to her and their hands came together again as he asked, quietly, "Do you think we could cast a muffling spell?"

Hermione glanced around, and then replied, "Let's wait until she gets back with our drinks."

"I suppose it would be obvious, wouldn't it?" he said with a gentle, wry smile. "You're better at this than me."

She couldn't help but smile back, but she squeezed his hands. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He glanced down at their hands, and then replied, "Yes, I'm fine." It was clear he wasn't fine at all, though, and she felt something akin to remorse for getting him mixed up in this Malfoy business.

"I'm sorry, Thomas, I really am," she said, though she wasn't _too_ sorry, not sorry enough to wish she'd never gotten him into this, because he was proving to be an invaluable resource. She just needed to keep him functional, undetected, and compliant. _Oh, Merlin, I'm thinking just like Lucius Malfoy, _she thought to herself, and her blood ran cold. She released his hands and drew back before she'd realized what she'd done.

"What's wrong?" he asked her.

"I'm manipulating you," she said.

"What?" he asked.

"Look at me," she said. "Isn't it obvious?"

Thomas looked at her.

"No," he said. "It isn't obvious. You need my help, don't you?"

"Yes," she said.

"Have you in any way forced me to help you?"

"No," she said.

"I've done it of my own free will," he said. "Because I want to."

"To help me," she finished his sentence quietly.

"Yes!" he said. "Exactly!"

"But, but-," she objected, desiring to self-loathe. "It isn't fair, with my experience I can just use it against you, to make you do what I want-,"

He shook his head, took her hands, and said, "No, don't."

"Thomas," she sighed, and he had the gall to smile so sweetly she just couldn't.

"One firewhiskey, and one smoking hot butterbeer," said the bored waitress, thumping down drinks right in the middle of their 'date' that was, briefly, a date.

They both muttered some semblance of thanks and exhibited signs of embarrassment, and the waitress noticed nothing at all, nor, clearly, did she care. She left.

After a few moments of testing out the drinkage, Thomas nodded towards Hermione's spiked butterbeer.

"How is that, anyway?" he asked.

"Excellent," she replied, meaning every ounce of the word, and then smiling after he did. It was always so easy to smile around him.

"Hermione," he said, taking one of her hands. "I want to be sure you know that I really am doing this because I want to, because I've always, well, dreamed of adventure, and have read about what things were like in the old days when everything seemed so much more, I don't know, _lawless_ and exciting. You remember that, you lived it, and I envy you for it. I mean, I'm a recordkeeping secretary. Can anyone get more boring than that?"

Hermione laughed, but then said: "The old times weren't as great as you make them sound, you know. Some parts were just awful."

"I know. At least, now I really feel like I know."

"It hasn't been too awful for you, has it?" she asked.

"Experience is never a terrible thing, even if it is terrible while you're having the experience," he replied.

She found herself lacing her fingers through his.

"I'm going to cast a muffling charm now," he whispered to her.

"Okay."

The spell was quick, and then he took a sip of firewhiskey. He seemed pensive again.

"What I'm going to tell you is terrible, has terrible implications, and will be nearly impossible for us to right alone," he said, his warm voice tinging grave.

"What is it?" she asked.

Thomas heaved a sigh, perhaps to bolster himself, and burrowed forward.

"There was a subtle paper trail of orders to make things _not _happen," he said.

"What sorts of things?"

"The trial, for one," he said. "It's impossible to imagine today, because something like Narcissa's death, Draco's unexplained insanity, and Lucius' disappearance all one after another would never be just swept under the rug like it was, but… it was. It all was."

"Right, we'd just barely survived what was basically the magical apocalypse," she said. "No one was paying attention, or cared. The Malfoys weren't really anyone's favorite family, after all they'd done."

"So it was hard to find _anything_, but what I did find was an end-of-the-year inquiry from a secretary of the Wizengamot to a secretary of the Ministry leadership on the status of the trial, wherein the reply was, in a nutshell, that it had been 'taken care of', without supplying any details on how or for whom it had been resolved," he said.

"Ugh," said Hermione.

"And after that, I looked into correspondence between that particular Ministry secretary and any of the Ministry leadership," he said, "and I found only a few times when the Malfoy investigation was inferred; once when that secretary received direction from the Minister's office on how to respond to end-of-the-year inquiries, and a second time when the finalization report had been received from the Department of Aurors. So I looked into correspondence between the Minister's office and the Department of Aurors during the same nine-month period."

"Wow," said Hermione, openly admiring Thomas, now. "I just saw you last night. You did all this in _twenty-four hours_?"

"I'm tired," he said, with a half-laugh. "But, I will admit, there was something electrifying about it; the search, the discovery, the leads. It kept me going."

"Did you find anything between the Minister's office and the Department of Aurors?" she asked.

"Well, you probably remember that it was during this time that Kingsley Shacklebolt went from being the Head of Aurors to the Minister of Magic," he said.

"Oh, yes I remember it well," she said. "We'd had a few lousy heads of the Ministry, and the whole thing was a sorry mess."

"I don't remember," he said, "because I was, er, six."

Hermione tried not to choke.

"But there were a lot more correspondences between the Aurors and the Minister of Magic than usual at that time," he said. "I suppose because Mr. Shacklebolt was so familiar with the business of the Aurors and they had … a lot more to talk about?"

"Maybe," said Hermione.

"Anyway, as far as references to the Malfoy situation, there were a number of documents between the new Minister Shacklebolt and the new head of Aurors, but all of them stated the case 'closed' and ordered all investigation ended forthwith. The Malfoys were a side-note, often included with other cases in discussions, and rarely given singular attention," he said.

"So who is the driving force behind wanting this case closed and to head off all investigation?" asked Hermione. "Or was it just a situation where no one wanted to bother with it?"

"Well," said Thomas, who looked like he had more to add, "that's what I wondered, but I think, I strongly think, that that's exactly what the Ministry, namely Kingsley Shacklebolt, _wants_ everyone to think. That it was the end of a war, nobody liked the Malfoys, and it just wasn't the right time for anyone to care enough to find out the truth. It was enough for everyone that two nameless Death Eaters were implicated and 'sent to Azkaban', if they were Death Eaters at all."

"Mr. Shacklebolt!" replied Hermione, then she leaned forward, muffling spell or not, and spoke quietly, "Are you implying Mr. Shacklebolt is _behind _this cover up? Really?"

"Maybe," ventured Thomas, looking rattled.

"But he's a wonderful Minister of Magic! He fixed the Ministry! It was in shambles, and he's done a fantastic job of reforming it!" said Hermione.

"Yes, he has been, in fact, a very good Minister of Magic," replied Thomas, defeated.

"No one would believe he did such a thing!" said Hermione.

"No, they wouldn't, not without proof," he replied.

"Well, then, go on," Hermione said, "Tell me what you found on Shacklebolt to make you believe such a thing. It has to be something good, because … you wouldn't. You just wouldn't."

Thomas puffed out a bolstering breath of air.

"So, I started really looking into Shacklebolt, and the events occurring just before the Malfoy demise, and his interaction regarding any Malfoy at all, which was mostly limited to correspondence with and about Narcissa," he said.

"She was responsible for bringing a whole slew of Death Eaters to justice, from what I remember, in her last weeks," said Hermione.

"So they say," said Thomas.

"Oh no," said Hermione. "What now?"

Thomas cleared his throat and Hermione re-laced her fingers through his. Thomas was turning out to be more than invaluable, whatever that was.

"A mistake was made, and I found it," he said. "There were a number of documents from Shacklebolt to the Ministry and the Aurors regarding new leads from Narcissa, but none of the correspondences between Narcissa and Shacklebolt discussed any of these leads, so I began to wonder about those particular Death Eaters. I had to look somewhere else, deep in the Azkaban registry files, to find where the mistake was made. Someone forgot to change the information in those files, and they still reflect how those Death Eaters were actually tracked down, and none of them were turned in by Narcissa."

"She didn't turn in any of the Death Eaters, but Kingsley went out of his way to give her credit?" asked Hermione. "Why? What was he trying to do?"

"I don't know," he said.

They both fell silent for a long moment.

"Why does that make you think Kingsley was trying to take down that Malfoys?" she asked. "That sounds like he was trying to _help _them."

"I don't think he was trying to take down the Malfoys," said Thomas. "I think he was just trying to silence the whole situation after the fact. Maybe whatever he was trying to do didn't go according to plan."

"Then what would he have been trying to do?" wondered Hermione aloud, in a sort of rhetorical way.

"Whatever he was trying to do, he was doing it with at least the knowledge of Narcissa," he said. "Their correspondence, at least on the public record, is vague, but centered around two events: the disappearance of Lucius Malfoy and the night of her murder."

"Well, clearly Narcissa wouldn't have been planning her own murder," said Hermione.

"No, most people aren't keen on planning their own murders," said Thomas.

"But maybe that night didn't go quite according to plan?" asked Hermione.

"It's hard to say what the plan might have been," said Thomas, "when we don't have any of the actual non-watered down correspondence between Minister Shacklebolt and Mrs. Malfoy."

"That would definitely not be in the Ministry Recordkeeping Department," said Hermione.

"Probably not," said Thomas.

"What we need now are bonafide memories," said Hermione. "Draco's memories."

"That would be useful," said Thomas.

"I have a plan for that," she said. "Are you going to the Spring Ball?"

"Um, sure," said Thomas. "Shall we go together?"

"Ah," she said, awkwardly. "I'm going with Lucius."

Thomas blinked, then looked entirely befuddled, and perhaps a little hurt.

"You're joking," he said.

"No, well, let me explain," she said, and then she explained all about _Jacques Malfoi _to an increasingly alarmed-looking Thomas_._

"You're insane," he observed.

"That's not the first time I've been told that today," admitted Hermione. "But I think it is crazy enough to work. Maybe."

Thomas just sat and looked very concerned for what she assumed was Hermione's future well-being.

She leaned forward and joked lightly, "I'm just letting you know so when you see Lucius there, you won't scream."

Thomas showed absolutely no reaction to her 'joke', so she cleared her throat (awkwardly) and went on: "If he is able to claim the Malfoy inheritance, he will also be allowed to discharge Draco from St. Mungo's, and Draco's memories will be ours. We'll finally have, hopefully, the answers we're looking for, and then we can see about sending Lucius back to 1998-,"

"He wants to go back?" cut in Thomas.

"Yes," said Hermione. "He wants to fix it."

Thomas seemed to visibly relax with that information.

"That's a good idea," said Thomas.

Hermione gave Thomas a sideways look.

"You know, there's something that's been bothering me," she said.

"What's that?"

"Last night, when you convinced Lucius not to _obliviate _you somehow… what did you do?" she asked. "He was dead set on it, and when Lucius is dead set on something, it takes hell and high-water to stop him."

Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat and, after a moment, finally said: "That is between myself and Mr. Malfoy."

"Oh really?" asked Hermione, in disbelief and perhaps a little annoyance. "Really? Do I really need another mystery to solve here?"

Thomas smiled apologetically and stroked her hand with genuine affection. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I hope you can respect that I require secrecy in this matter."

It was too hard _not _to respect his wishes, with how sincere he was and everything. And that adorable _smile _should be outlawed forthwith.

"Fine," relented Hermione. "Fine. And it really is so very fortunate you did talk him out of it. Look what you've learned! We'd be lost without you, Thomas."

Thomas rewarded her with more of his radiant smile and she felt quite good for a moment. In fact, she realized what it was about Thomas that made her feel so very, _very_ good. His radiance and his adorableness and his smiles were so disarming that, whilst he turned the full brunt of his brilliance upon her, she stopped thinking altogether. Even if it was only for a moment, all thought stopped and she just _experienced. _When was the last time she ever did that? The last time Thomas smiled at her, she supposed, but before him, when? She didn't know. But here she was, thinking again, because it could never be stopped for long, and through her brain churned the desire to put pieces together that begged to be connected, dragging her, pulling her towards a greater understanding of the theory of everything.

She suddenly felt an alarmingly strong need to go to Malfoy Manor.

"I need to talk to Lucius," she said.

Thomas glanced down and released her hand from his.

"Oh," he said. "Of course."

She looked back at him and suddenly felt sorry, like she had gotten what she wanted from him and was ready to toss him aside and move on to the next interesting thing. The most jarring thing about that is that it was mostly true and she knew it.

Thomas threw back the rest of his firewhiskey and stood up.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

"Thomas…" said Hermione.

"It's fine," he said.

"Do you want to come?" she asked, offering a shard at least.

"No, thanks," he said with a quiet chuckle. "I should get some sleep."

Outside the driving rain hated them, but mostly hated itself for still existing, since winter was waning and crumbling, losing all to spring, and the cold rain was a bitter remnant, refusing to give in to the inevitable for as long as it could. Their umbrellas were steadfast enough, however, and huddled together against the rain and good-byes.

"Will you be alright?" she asked him, looking into his fair-and-tawny face and wishing she could offer him more.

"Of course I will," he said. "I'm quite good at keeping my head down and seeming innocuous."

She smiled helplessly at him and replied, "Who wouldn't trust that face of yours?"

"Save me a dance tomorrow," he said, a faint tinge of sorrow lacing through his tapestry.

"I can't make any promises," she said, meaning it, but sorry for it.

"I'm getting used to that," he replied, but he leaned forward and his daylight-warmth in the damp-dark suddenly filled her senses, and dayspring, _aurora!_, he was kissing her, soft, affectionate, considerate, and she let him, because his kiss was as infectious as his smile.

A cold flash of light shook them both from the Garden of Eden, and they turned to see a reporter from _The Daily Prophet_ congratulating them on their delightful new relationship.

"Who's the lucky fellow, Miss Granger?" asked the reporter.

"Uhm," said Hermione, hurriedly pulling Thomas away from, well, _everything_. "No comment!" she called behind her.

Of all the times for her celebrity status to get in the way. What an absolute _idiot _she was to agree to meet at the _Leaky Cauldron. _The waitress must have tipped them off. Or anyone else who might have seen her inside. She didn't think anyone cared about who she might be seeing anymore! Perhaps it was Thomas' clear much younger-ness that made it interesting. Who knows, and the whole thing just irritated her because she certainly didn't need _more_ complications right now. She dragged Thomas around the corner and told him directly, "Port home. Now."

To his credit, he complied, but he gave her a small, secret smile just before and she felt as if that was almost worth it. Almost!

She shuddered and drew a deep breath. Time to face the Malfoy.

-oOo-


	18. Tea for Two

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: TEA FOR TWO

She was polite enough to knock on the front door of the manor. That should at least earn her some consideration points. Never mind that it was nearly eleven at night. Surely Lucius was still up.

"Ah, Miss Granger?" inquired Porgy at the door.

"May I see Mr. Malfoy, please?" she asked.

"Er, yes," said the elf, "just come to the drawing room, please. Is Miss Granger drenched? Shall I bring towels?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you Porgy," she said. "It's just a little rain."

"Tea?"

"Yes, please."

It was strange being brought into the manor as a guest; she had never felt guest-like while here before, especially before-before when she was dragged here as a prisoner of war (which memory provided her with a very special constant undercurrent of rage). Today, the drawing room was warm and green and mahogany with an intricate oriental rug on the floor and a crackling, comforting fire in the hearth. It made her admire house-elves for their industry, because this was the same room in which she and Luna had laid an unconscious Lucius on that first day, warily staring upon him as if he were a sleeping murderous lion. How unkempt and disused it had been then, and what life it had now! Malfoy Manor seemed to be waking slowly, like a sleeping leviathan. She had hope it might waken to benevolence, but she suspected benevolence and malevolence were inconsequential to Malfoy Manor, and all that mattered was the survival of the House of Malfoy, i.e. the line of Malfoy, mortal. Whether that meant behaving good or evil made no difference, as long as H of M was preserved.

For a moment, deposited on a velveteen couch from which all of the dust had been recently beaten, she felt very small.

"You've come back?" inquired Lucius from the doorway, pulling her out of her reverie upon his manor (or perhaps one could say the manor to which he belonged). She didn't know why, but for some reason she felt _relieved _to see him, standing there in his shirt-sleeves, in the light of candles, his hair pulled to the side over one shoulder, casual by his standards but not by anyone else's, and very genuinely interested in her coming response. He looked wholly comfortable standing there, within the doorframe of his manor (or the manor to which he belonged [TMTWHB]), as if his matter were made of the exact same matter of which the house was composed, or, barring that, the energy of his body was so closely aligned with that of the house that they seemed to be part of the other, indivisible, and perfectly suited in the other's company.

She gave him a wry smile and said, "I have."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said with her best mock-noblesse non-shrug, "Convenience? Safety, perhaps?"

He smirked.

"Why?" he asked again, patiently.

She glanced down at her hands, entwined on her lap.

"I met with Thomas," she began.

"Mr. Bennett?" asked Lucius. "Has he already proven himself more useful?"

Hermione felt a shard of remorse. Why did she feel remorse? Was she feeling remorse over Thomas somehow? Because he'd _kissed _her? Wasn't it her right to be kissed by whomever she liked? Why was she even thinking about this right now? How did this even apply to the current situation? She wanted to punch herself in the eye.

"Yes, he quite has," she replied, wishing she could will the hesitation out of her voice.

Lucius was quiet long enough for her to decide to look up at him.

"You're acting strange," he remarked.

She let out a weird little laugh that didn't help her case at all.

"Fine, stranger than normal," he admitted. "Why are you acting stranger than normal?"

"I don't know!" she blurted out with her anxieties, and she stood, and she paced to the fireplace mantle, and she leaned on the mantle, solid, comforting, both of her arms bracing her weight, and she gathered her thoughts. "But I have information, important information, for you, and you're getting that first before anything else."

"That sounds wise," Lucius' voice said from behind her, after a moment.

She drew a breath and straightened up, turning to face him. "We think the current Minister of Magic was the man responsible for sweeping the Malfoy case under the rug, and at least partially at fault for the dismantling of your family."

Lucius' eyes widened dangerously.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"Yes," she replied.

"I'll have his head on a pike."

"Easy, Lucius."

"I'll have his head on a pike and then his ghost's head on a pike _beside that pike!" _

"Lucius!"

"Oh, shut up."

She did.

Lucius paced across the rug once, then twice, bringing to mind the deliberate, threatening pace of a caged tiger. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out, letting something tense out with it, and then, with misleading calm, sat very carefully down upon the sofa and arranged himself with dark meticulation. When he finally raised his gaze to her what she saw there made the nape of her neck scream.

"Please come, sit down and tell me everything you know," he said, polite and terrifying.

"Yes," she said, sounding breathless for some reason, but moving to do so. There were just some times when you don't mess with a caged tiger.

-oOo—

Once she had explained everything Thomas had discovered and Porgy had brought a lovely little tray of tea and scones, she spent the next half hour coaxing Lucius into a state that didn't involve only describing Kingsley Shacklebolt's head on a pike.

"It all kind of puts Shacklebolt's reaction in Draco's memories in a different light, doesn't it?" asked Hermione.

Lucius was silent, brooding, but he acknowledged her and probably agreed. He was gazing at a petite fork with a scone speared on the end of it that she could only assume was metaphorical.

"If he was guilty, I would imagine he would barely be able to stand being in the same room with Draco, let alone be mistaken for you," she said. "I wonder how much he had to do with your … eh… current situation? It was very, _very _likely his wand that illegally set the muffling ward outside of your manor just before you were sent away in time by the house."

In another context, she would probably find that whole last sentence kind of hilarious-sounding. Her life was well and truly weird, now. Weirder than normal.

"He was clearly involved with something that night," she said. "We just don't know exactly what."

Lucius maintained his brooding silence, so Hermione just kept talking.

"One of the biggest problems is that Shacklebolt has been actually a quite fine Minister of Magic. He's almost universally respected for his ability to bring a previously unheard-of era of stability and peace to the wizarding world," she said. "I mean, he's not perfect, but he's been extremely effective as a Minister. It would be very difficult to bring him down."

Lucius glanced at her.

"Why would we do that?" he asked.

Hermione stared at Lucius. "Because he did something extremely illegal and horrible?" she ventured. "And who knows what other illegal and horrible things he's done in the meantime that nobody knows about? And because, as a person who does illegal and horrible things, he should be brought to justice?"

Lucius' brooding expression slowly morphed into amusement, _condescending_ amusement, and he chuckled at what she could only assume was her expense.

"What?" she asked, baffled.

"Oh, dear, sweet, confused, completely _inefficient_ Gryffindor," he said, and he patted her on the head. _He patted her on the head_. He was going to win an award for condescension at this rate. "That's adorable."

"Would you mind explaining what you are going on about?" she asked, possibly seethed, maybe embarrassed for something she knew not.

His hand moved from her head to beside her face, where he gently curled a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. It was clearly an act of fondness, and she didn't expect it, but it took at least a bit of the edge off of his blatant condescension. As he did it, he spoke:

"It does continue to surprise me, though I should have expected it, this Gryffindorian tendency to want to charge in, wands blazing, and bring everyone and everything to justice, as if that is the only way to deal with this sort of thing."

"But you've just spent half an hour talking about putting Shacklebolt's head on a pike!" she objected.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "I would quite love to put Shacklebolt's head on a pike. But do you know the problem with putting someone's head on a pike?"

"I really hope you don't know this from personal experience."

He ignored that and continued curling a lock of her hair around his finger, as he was wont to do, at this particular time, for some reason.

"It's over too quickly," he said. "Revenge is a dish best served cold, and slowly, in increments, and always to one's ultimate advantage."

"You're kind of a terrible person," she observed.

"Is this new information to you?" he asked, unrepentant as he smiled at her. _Smiled. _And oh, how very different was his smile than Thomas'. Like an alligator. Or a snake. Or something else that lures you in and eats you. He must have seen something on her face that gave him pause, because his countenance shifted a little and he changed tack.

"Hermione," he said, using her name, but was it intentional? Yes, it seemed as if it was. He crossed one leg over the other and turned more to face her on the sofa… and his hand, which was once ensconced with her lock of hair, rested instead behind her on the sofa back, and for the first time she began to wonder if it was wise to be here, alone with a man such as Lucius, on a sofa, at midnight. The realization made her anxious.

"Will you allow me to explain reason to you?" he asked her, shifting into 'mentor mode', it seemed.

"Reason?" she asked, believing herself to be quite good with reason already. "Really?"

"Just let me explain," he said.

"As you like," she replied, with a meaningful sigh.

"Reason is taking all of the elements you are given and coming up with the most efficient and effective solution," he said.

"I can see that," she said.

"That solution will not always be labeled 'right'," he said, watching her carefully.

She stayed quiet to see where he was going with this.

"Sometimes it might be labeled 'utterly wrong'," he said, "but not often. That happens rarely, actually. Often the most effective and efficient solutions are in a sort of grey area. Reason often lies in a grey, occasionally questionable area."

She might have narrowed her eyes at him a little, but he went on.

"Let's look at the situation with Kingsley Shacklebolt using _reason_, not _pure justice_, shall we?" he asked. "What are our motives? What are we trying to reason out? What are the best outcomes… for us? I realize that I have exactly zero ideas of what your motives are, Hermione, but mine include power, influence, and security. The bottom line is, considering what we know about Kingsley Shacklebolt at this moment, we can acquire all three through using our knowledge in clever ways. Kingsley Shacklebolt is a good Minister of Magic. He does a good job. Why would we want to remove him? Why would we want to expose him and destroy his credibility? We _want_ the Ministry to be stable and effective. He is doing what we want him to do, right now. However, if he were to fear us and our ability which we possess to destroy his credibility and remove him from office if we so desire, imagine what we could do. We have now been given a very powerful weapon, Hermione. We should use it wisely."

"But what about your revenge?" she asked, half-facetiously, finding this all a little on the nerve-wracking side.

"Revenge comes naturally in cases such as this," he said. "I am a patient man. Gradually overpowering Shacklebolt politically will be revenge enough, especially the moment when he realizes he is completely under my control."

"This is all very _Count of Monte Cristo_," she muttered.

"I'm not familiar with that noble line," he said. "Is it Spanish?"

"Never mind," she said, then turning to him, she lifted a hand to place over his chest. Still, it took her a moment to do it, as she was breaking through old barriers of physical contact, and that was never easy to do. "Lucius," she said, hesitating, and then her hand landing to rest upon his shirt. He accepted her touch mildly. "Lucius. Listen. Let me explain _my _reason to you."

He raised a dubious eyebrow, but allowed her to make her case.

"In the end," she said, "there are more important things than power, influence, and security, and those things all point towards finding something greater and of more importance than yourself; why do Gryffindors charge in, wands blazing to right that which is wrong? Why do we want justice? Because we want everyone to have the right to a good, happy life, without having to resort to machinations and grey areas to get there."

"That isn't practical," he said.

"That isn't the point," she replied. "The point is we possess _hope_, possibly much more hope than you, that what we do, if we keep fighting for it, can make a difference, however small, in making _your_ type of reason less necessary."

"You chase a mirage," he said, but his hand came up to cover hers. "It is exactly power, influence, and security which allow anyone to live a good, happy life, and to think otherwise is to be naïve. If you don't have enough of all three of the former, then I am sorry to say you will not have the latter, because someone, somewhere, who subscribes to the necessity of grey will come and take it from you."

"Then I suppose we will have to agree to disagree, because where is your proof?" she asked. "Has your reason provided you with a good, happy life?"

"Has yours?" he countered effectively.

And then they experienced a shared moment like a sharp pinprick, the lack of proof for either of them striking them with sudden, existential ennui. If neither of them had found the good, happy, promised bliss by proscribing to either of their polar philosophies, then for what had they lived all of these years? Were they both wrong? If they were both wrong, if such a thing were possible, then whatever could be right? It blinded her for a moment, and when she came to herself, she realized she'd clenched his shirt in her fist and then, secondly, noticed he was holding her hand against him, preventing her from letting go.

His face was like a man in mourning, and was hers, perhaps, the same? They might have had a shared realization, but they were both too stubborn to voice it aloud, and she didn't know about him, but she felt quite unwilling to abandon the wisdom of her life's experience over one moment of hopelessness.

"You should be grateful to my reason, for it is that reason that drove me to help you," she said. "Because I believe that, no matter how awful you are, no one deserves what happened to you or your family, and it is my duty as a person to help… because I can."

His eyes darkened when she said the part about him being 'awful', and then he replied:

"Don't begin to pretend your motivation isn't self-centered."

"Lucius-," she protested, but he went on.

"You can't help but meddle in such a mysterious, clandestine mess; you thrive on it, I've watched you come alive in the process. Your intellect won't allow you _not_ to be here, and even if you hadn't convinced yourself that this is a 'charitable cause', unconsciously you know your supposed altruism is all a lie, because you're getting what you want out of this, whatever that is, and you will continue to do so for as long as you want it," he said.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held her fast.

"At least I'm clear in my motivations," he said. "You know what I'm about."

"What are you saying?"

"Who is more honest, you or I?"

"How can you even ask that? You're a manipulative snake!"

"I may be, but I don't pretend to be anything else," he said, and implications dripped from his words.

This time she yanked her hand away, fury building inside of her, and shot to her feet. How dare he? _How dare he. _He let her hand go, waiting for her to reply. He _wanted _her anger, and he waited, regarding her with loaded patience, anticipating her fury to spill out upon him in nuclear radiance, she just _knew it._ It was as if he craved it. She clutched her hand to her chest and shook her head at him, because he couldn't be right; he was only saying that to make her angry, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She would not. He couldn't possibly be right. How could he say such a thing about _her?_ She was Hermione By-Merlin Granger! She, by everything that was good in the world, was not an imposter! He was wrong! He was wrong and terrible and so very many kinds of _messed up._

Her vision began to blur and she turned away the instant she realized unplanned tears were currently trying to make her life even more miserable, and the hallway seemed the right place to be right then, yes, it was a much better place to be, she realized after getting there, and maybe, oh, that was a door out onto the colonnade, _yes_, that was _perfect_, she could get out of this place, which suddenly filled her with a baking claustrophobia and a rising panic.

Outside, beneath the leaking, ancient colonnade, Hermione leaned over an edge and gasped to regain the breath she had been holding, and if a few or a thousand tears left her she would never let him know it. The rain drove angrily, beating the colonnade's roof, and water worked against stone where cracks become crevasses and then, someday, crumble.

It had, at that moment, become too much, but the terrible thing was, she knew she was caught. Lucius now knew enough about her and what she had done and what she knew that he could use it, and he would use it.

But she could use what she knew.

As she leaned back against a column and gazed out into the rain, she contemplated the idea of betraying Lucius, turning him in, and being done with it all. Done with the whole mess. Everyone would believe her. She was the girl-who-stood-next-to-the-boy-who-lived, after all.

Better yet, she could go to Kingsley Shacklebolt and strike a deal. Promise to keep his secrets if he'll keep hers, and allow him to sweep _this one_ under the rug, too.

Oh, mercy, the very idea just made her shudder. How could she even _consider_ having a person 'swept under the rug', even if that person was the most awful person she'd ever known? How could she live with herself? She couldn't. She just _couldn't, _and that's when she knew. She wasn't Lucius Malfoy. She wasn't _like _Lucius Malfoy. For her, the reasonable thing to do was not the most advantageous thing to do; it was the right thing to do. If she were in this for her own benefit, she'd have been extorting Lucius from the moment she'd recognized him. The realization seeped through her consciousness like healing water.

Upon returning to the drawing room Lucius was still there, still on the sofa, and he hadn't even tried to follow her. Had she really expected he would? He was, however, instantly attentive when she returned.

So maybe she hadn't fully mastered her tears yet. She wasn't sure when she would be able to, because they kept coming, but by that point she didn't care.

"Lucius," she said to him as he rose to face her, "you're wrong."

She felt dual tears fall on her cheeks, but she knew they weren't tears of sorrow or anxiety, but tears of _relief. _

"You're wrong about me," she said, meaning every note and nuance. He was wrong, and she _knew_ it, and he would never manipulate her again into thinking otherwise.

Lucius seemed not to know what to do with her, tearful and obstinate as she was, nor how to respond. Perhaps she had finally locked the gears of his mind with a new, unfamiliar cog, and maybe he would have to learn to use it properly.

"Don't try to pretend like you understand me," she began.

"I don't," he admitted, as if this was old news.

"Or my motivations," she insisted.

"I don't," he said, helpless.

She wiped a tear from her cheek.

"I said I didn't want to fight with you," she said. "I don't like it."

"I know," he said.

"Then stop being selfish!" she exclaimed.

Lucius looked pained for a moment, then he moved closer, and began one of those strange moments when he became a kind, affectionate person, as if it was a switch he could turn on and off inside his psyche whenever it suited his purpose. He pulled her hand away from her face and gently wiped her tears himself with his thumb, his hand lingered, his fingertips pressed into her jawline and he coaxed her to look up at him.

"Is this another form of manipulation?" she asked him as another tear fell, one of frustration. "Are you only doing this to get me to do what you want? To achieve to your best advantage? Is this you or is it just a calculated move? How can anything you do ever really mean _anything?"_

At her words, his controlled veneer crumbled to sadness, and he moved away.

"How familiar," he said, his voice soft, and perhaps weak. He turned and called for Porgy.

What was familiar about it? Had someone else said that to him? Could it have been Narcissa? Was she closer to understanding the terrible nature of their marriage than she realized?

"Yes, master?" inquired a sudden Porgy.

"You will prepare the Blue Room for Miss Granger immediately," he said, certainly not asking her first if she wanted to stay at the manor. Sure, it was late, and sure, it would also be much more convenient, but he really could have asked _her _first! When she stared at him, he looked at her and added with strange humility, "Please."

He asked with such penitence she couldn't object.

-oOo-

_**A/N: I just got Fallout 4 so ... see you in 6 months? Just kiddin'. But maybe. **_


	19. Avant Le Printemps

**_A/N: I put the title of this chapter in French as my tiny, insignificant way to show support for Paris at this time._**

CHAPTER NINETEEN: AVANT LE PRINTEMPS

As she awoke the next day, once again in the Blue Guest Room, she rolled over and groaned into an (admittedly) comfy pillow at the recollection of the previous evening's events, and possibly due to the fact that she was still there at all. Not only was she going to have to face Lucius after all of their _fighting_ and _debating_ and _emotional shenanigans_, but she was going to have to face the music with _The_ _Daily Prophet_'s intrusion into what it suspected was her love life. Which… she didn't know if it was her love life or not. She was pretty sure she actually didn't really want to get in any sort of romantic relationship with Thomas at all.

A bit late for that.

Sure, he was attractive and nice and whatever, but he was just ridiculously young and, when it came down to it, he was too young to understand, well, anything. Oh, whatever. One crisis at a time.

She threw herself out of bed and then threw open the long, blue and heavy curtains with equal gusto. The latch on the window only stuck a little, and after a moment she had that open and was leaning out, surveying the cloudy scene of the sodden Malfoy lands. The air smelt fresh at least, and near the window, a wayward vine was budding a vibrant green. It pleased her.

"I wonder what Lucius has decided I shall wear today?" she asked wryly, turning to face the room and looking for a pile of clothes.

There they were. Another high-waisted pencil skirt, but she didn't recognize it. Did he actually have this made? Really? It was nice. _Really nice. _Black, made of thick material, well-tailored, two black cloth-covered buttons fashionably placed near the side. She felt immediately more attractive and feminine once she put it on, and she supposed that's what good clothes were supposed to do. A fine burgundy blouse was supplied with it, and patent heels, still sensible, and dark, but upon inspection they weren't black, but a very very dark burgundy. _Clever. _There were even some accessories and matching thin, short trench for, she supposed, when she went outside.

Clearly, Lucius was putting way too much effort into this. He needed to be using his resources for things like the investigation, not her clothes. She'd have to have a talk with him about that, but she'd enjoy it for now. It was quite nice and she actually did need something to wear, so it was all very practical and extravagant at the same time.

As she finished cleaning herself up in the adjoining washroom, she realized Luna wouldn't be there today. She would miss the buffer Luna provided for her when she was around. It was Saturday, and that meant Hermione would normally be wearing sweats at home, catching up on her reading. Instead she was dressed as if she were going into work. She actually was working, it seemed, 24 hours a day these days, if one considered Lucius Malfoy to be her employer. Something about that definition rubbed her the wrong way.

Speaking of Lucius Malfoy, they needed to make plans because tonight was the ball, and if they were to be successful, they would need lots and lots of plans. The whole impending doom of it made her stomach flutter uneasily, and not in a good way, but in a bad Hermione-was-dreading-this way.

She decided to casually make her way downstairs to see if Lucius was about.

Porgy was bustling around downstairs, carrying a tray with what looked like breakfast.

"Ah, Porgy!" she called from halfway down the staircase.

"Miss Granger," he said. "Follow Porgy, for the master is to breakfast in the solarium."

She didn't remember there being a solarium, but then again, she hadn't explored half of this place yet. Following Porgy, she eventually came into a room that had been restored, like many others, and she had actually once walked through, but hadn't recognized as a solarium at the time because the windows had once been all but opaque with overgrowth and dirt. Now it was clear and sunny and not a bad place for breakfasting. Lucius was certainly keeping Porgy busy.

Speaking of Lucius, he was sitting in a comfortable chair near the windows, very engrossed in reading today's edition of _The Daily Prophet_. Crap.

She sat down in a nearby chair to "enjoy" the bloom of morning over the distant Malfoy hills and/or plot ways to get that _Daily Prophet_ out of Lucius' hands. Maybe Lucius hadn't read about herself and Thomas, yet. Maybe the reporter had decided, after all, that her love life wasn't worth reporting about, or maybe Lucius hadn't even gotten to the society page? If he hadn't, she had to make sure he never got there. It was time for a distraction.

"Good morning," she said to him, with wild enthusiasm and what she hoped was a brilliant smile.

He glanced over at her around the edge of the paper, and then returned his attention to whatever he was reading, which was _not the society page_ _yet. _

"You're acting weird again," he said behind the newspaper.

"No, I'm not," she protested.

He put the paper down on his lap to look at her.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"No?" she meandered.

His eyes narrowed. He flicked the paper back up, seeming intent on ignoring her until she returned to her normal level of weirdness. She thought quickly.

"You're spending too much time on my clothes," she said.

"No, I'm not," he replied, not budging from the paper.

"Yes, you are," she argued. "All of that attention to detail is a waste of your time and energy when there are more important things to worry about."

"All I did was tell Porgy to enlist a personal stylist," he said. "And gave a few suggestions. It took five minutes."

_Darn. _

To her delight, he put the paper down to look at her. He glanced over her once, and then, to her dismay, he put the paper back up.

"Effective," he commented simply and then moved to turn the page.

"Lucius!" she exclaimed.

This time, when the paper came down, he started to look annoyed.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Why do you keep reading that paper?" she asked, feigning supposed offense at being ignored for a paper. Maybe this tactic would work.

"Because it is morning and I need to be apprised of what is going on in the world if I am to rule it," he said simply, as if he didn't just say something totally imperious.

"But we need to work on our plan for tonight," she said.

"Your clothes will arrive from the stylist at noon," he said.

"I don't care about my clothes!" she said. "Why is it always about clothes with you!"

Lucius looked baffled at her outburst. Good. The longer he stayed baffled, the longer she had to try to separate him from that paper.

"Are you intentionally trying to pick a fight with me?" he inquired.

"No," she said, meaning yes, she definitely was.

"Why?" he asked.

"I said I'm not," she said, sulking into the sunrise. "Can I see that paper a moment?"

He handed it over, and she gave him a deeply indulgent smile. His eyes were full of distrust.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" he asked.

"No," she said, turning straight to the society page.

There it was, _dammit_. That stupid reporter with his stupid intrepid reporting and stupid—well, to be honest, she and Thomas didn't look too bad whilst kissing, and it kind of reminded her of how pleasant it was to be kissing him, and it certainly _looked _wildly romantic, what with the umbrellas and the rain and the whole sweetness of it all. She guessed she couldn't blame him for the scoop, but it was time to burn this newspaper while she was still ahead- and at that moment Lucius, who had crept upon her unawares (or maybe just walked up normally), yanked the newspaper out of her cold, dead hands. At least, her hands felt cold and dead after the realization of what had just happened.

"Lucius!" she chided. "I was reading that!"

He looked over the society page and she tried to stop a shameful blush from forming all over her everything. She tried to look indignant, like he was the one who should be ashamed of himself, but she was failing so, so very badly as his eyes zeroed in on the offending picture. He folded the paper without bothering to read or even glance over the article that accompanied it, dropped it on a little table beside her chair and turned away in order to occupy himself with a cup of coffee.

"That explains the weirdness," he said after a moment, and then he turned fierce: "You've been busy canoodling with members of our investigative party after I specifically requested you refrain from romantic entanglements!"

"He just kissed me, I didn't-," she objected, but was cut off.

"Are you really going try to convince me you are unaware of how to stop someone from kissing you?" he asked.

"Yes, but he-," she tried again.

"You certainly don't look forced in that picture!" he said.

"I wasn't, but-," she tried thrice.

"And out in public, where anyone could take your picture!" he said. "Now there is proof of a connection between the two of you! Do you know you have just compromised Thomas' position as our informant due to your own _selfishness?" _

By this point she didn't reply, because he would have just cut her off, anyway.

"And how will this go tonight? Are our plans ruined?" he asked, maybe nearing irate by some definitions. "The whole wizarding world will be looking for you to arrive with a Mr. Thomas Bennett, shamefully young secretary at the Ministry, won't they?"

"He's not _shamefully young_."

"Yes, he is, and don't even begin to deny it!"

"Alright, fine," she replied. "_Fine!_ He is shamefully young and I don't even really know that I want—,"

_"At this point I don't care what you want, Hermione,"_ he said, "because, for the life of me, I cannot figure it out. It looks as if you can't either, which means, at least, we are in accord on that one thing. Of course, that may change within the next five minutes, since that's the general way of things with you, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What I'm talking about is that Hermione Granger, when she shows up at the Spring Ball with Jacques Malfoi, will come not as a muggleborn accessory to a reformed Malfoy inheritor as we planned, but as a sensational two-timing hoyden, playing two spineless men like dual cuckolds!"

"I beg your pardon!" she protested, rising to her feet.

"Thomas Bennett may be the sort to take whatever scraps he can get, but _Jacques Malfoi_ does _not share_."

She highly suspected, by his tone, and his posture, and the threatening thunderhead that was his facial expression, that this not-sharing trait was one Lucius co-owned with Jacques Malfoi, and that he was quite deadly serious about really, utterly, _not sharing ever, never. _

"This is the sort of thing that can make for a very, very bad first impression," he said.

"It shouldn't have any bearing on Jacques at all," she said. "That kiss is Hermione Granger's business."

"It makes him look weak," he said.

"We can pretend he came into town and swept her off her feet in a day," she said with a shrug.

"It makes her look flighty," he said, "which in turn makes him look weak as well as having poor judgment."

If being pureblooded, powerful, and influential required this much constant worrying about what other people thought and how one was to be perceived by every action, it sounded terrible and she maybe didn't want anything to do with it, even as an accessory. Lucius looked extremely broody about it all.

"Then just," she said, feeling frustrated, "just go alone."

"I need the mudblood card."

Her mud-blood ran cold.

"You didn't just say that."

"I wouldn't say it if you'd stop _acting like one_," he replied with disdain.

Of all the, the, the! Without any greater plans on file for such a situation, she simply grabbed his coffee out of his hands and threw it against the wall. The explosion of ceramic shards felt familiar, somehow. Familiar and cathartic. And stupid.

He snatched her wrist like a striking snake and held her fast with dark strength. Anger rolled off of him in waves.

"Why can't you learn to control yourself?" he demanded, his voice reflecting equal part fury and frustration.

She met his angry gaze with her own, equal, perhaps even a little bit _greater_ angry gaze.

"Don't _ever_ call me that again," she said, her voice coming out sounding far more threatening than she'd expected.

It gave him pause, subtle, scarcely perceptible pause, but she'd grown so accustomed to his face that she knew it immediately. He regretted he'd said it. The strength in his hold on her wrist slackened slightly.

"Stop ruining our plans," he said to her.

"Stop _micromanaging_ everything!"

"Stop kissing Thomas in front of reporters!"

"Stop micromanaging _me!_" she said.

"Stop kissing Thomas _at all_," he said.

"Stop being jealous!"

Those three words, bubbled forth from her subconscious, slammed into her conscious psyche with all the force of a bludger, and after the requisite bludger-induced eclipse, she realized his face was the very model of _'how dare she?'_, equal parts shock, outrage, and denial, and maybe even some form of agony playing at the seams.

But it was at this moment that her mind went to work, putting together countless tiny clues and behaviors, words and comments, and inflections and probabilities, and she realized her subconscious was right; he was jealous. Somehow. For some reason. In some way, he wanted her all to himself, and he _didn't want to share._

He watched her think; he watched her process. His eyes widened and he looked as if he'd been caught, and perhaps he hadn't realized there was anything for which to be caught until he was caught and held down by her increasingly fascinated stare. His hand lost its strength and, gradually, her wrist was released, and they stood, neither feeling the desire to broach the discussion of any new-found knowledge or anything of the like. It was too terrifying and awful, really.

"You were right," she said.

"I was?"

"Yes," she said, "about romantic entanglements. They're a distraction and, in the case of Thomas, a liability."

He stayed quiet, waiting.

"In the case of Thomas, I've used his attraction to me from the beginning to manipulate and control him," she said.

"I knew that," he said.

"I guess I just wasn't very good at controlling the whole thing," she said.

He stayed quiet again.

"It's really hard to know how to maneuver a person's emotions," she said. "And I don't want to be a complete Slytherin, so I guess I justify what I'm doing to him if I tell myself that I sort-of _like_ him. Then I'm not a complete hypocrite. Even though in reality I would never really want to seriously date him, if I allow myself to think I might, then I don't feel as bad. I can live with myself."

Lucius watched her rather thoughtfully throughout her entire explanation, and she thought it was safe to say that not a single facial nuance got past him in those moments. In this, he was _very_ interested.

"One of the greatest challenges of living this sort of life is the difficulty in cultivating real human relationships," he said. "Anyone you are close to knows what you do, and questions the validity of everything you do and say."

She thought about last night, and how hurt he looked after she did exactly that.

"That's terrible," she said.

"Is it?" he asked. "Or is it the sacrifice that one must make to ensure the security of those for whom one cares?"

"I continue to be hopeful that there is another way," she said.

He gave her a look that said he did not agree. She gave _him _a look that said maybe he should think about it. He narrowed his eyes in response, but looked slightly amused.

"Why are you so open with me?" she asked, and then caught herself, because 'Lucius Malfoy' and 'open' were antonymns. "I mean you're not open by normal standards, but you openly tell me of your motivations and plans, and general things for which I might condemn you."

"I guess that means I've learned to trust you," he said.

"Hm," said Hermione.

"More than anyone else," he said.

"Ah," she said.

"However, you made a large mistake last night."

"Ahem," she said.

"You're not perfect, I can acknowledge and accept that."

Hermione puffed out a breath of air and glowered a little at him.

"So, how shall we fix it?" he asked, ignoring her glower.

"How about this?" she asked, devising a story in her head: "Hermione, working late last night at the manor after her surprise-kiss with Thomas, hears a knock at the front door (with a simultaneous crash of lightning, naturally), and, Porgy arrives with," Hermione added a dramatic gasp, "_Jacques Malfoi._"

"Do go on," he said.

"Well, it turns out that Hermione and this _handsome stranger _Jacques share an immense love of books, and so they stay up talking all night long – imagine that – about books, and he, intending to go to the ball anyway, asks her to accompany him the next night so she can help him make her debut. She can only say yes, for books were discussed, and, you know, _books_. Throw in something else about books for extra validity."

"Sounds almost similar to the truth, almost."

"It's generally easier just to tell the truth as much as possible," she said. "Oh, and they're going as acquaintances, not as, you know, romantic entanglementers."

"Because even those two, Hermione the simple book finder and Jacques the book enthusiast, know that romantic entanglements only complicate matters and distract from what deserves their real focus," said Lucius.

"Which is books, obviously."

"Nothing but books."

"All the time."

"Is this our plan?" he asked, looking amused.

"Part of it," she smiled. "Take me on a walk around the grounds; I want to see the roses. Meanwhile, we can iron out all of the rest of the details."

"As you wish," he said, calling for Porgy.

"The master called?" asked Porgy, after a poofity appearance.

"Porgy, I seem to have dropped my coffee," said Lucius, indicating the spot where a cup of coffee seemed to have exploded against the wall. "Would you clean it up, please?"

"Er," said Porgy with a pause, perhaps trying to ascertain how one could drop coffee in a horizontal direction and with such violence. He eventually seemed to give up. "Of course, master."

Lucius offered his arm to Hermione and asked cordially, "Shall we?"

-oOo-

**_A/N: I hope to actually get to the Spring Ball next chapter! These little vignettes that are supposed to be "short" in my head, keep extending to chapter length! _**


	20. Le Bal de Printemps

_**A/N: Wow! This chapter ate my soul! I had set events to put into this chapter and to fit it all in, well, it kept going and going and going... Also, there's a lot of French, but I'm assuming most of it is common-knowledge French. The part with Excessive French will be translated at the end of the chapter.**_

_**Malfoi is pronounced mal-FWAH.**_

CHAPTER TWENTY: LE BAL DE PRINTEMPS

Her ball gown was midnight blue, it sparkled as she moved, and seemed to be equal parts tulle, satin, and the most wonderful little crystalline beads. With it had been packed a jewelry set of too-much-yet-delightful grey tourmaline and a pair of charcoal heels that sparkled merrily in the light. She simply _had_ to get the name of this personal stylist Lucius had recruited for her, because whoever it was, he or she was _absolutely fabulous_. She wondered if Lucius were to manage to go back in time and all of these memories and experiences would cease to exist – she was more and more hating the idea – maybe she could tell Lucius to send this stylist her way at the appropriate time.

Years of prepping her own horrible hair had given her enough practice to do an adequate job, and so she pulled it up with loose pinning, because what else does one do in such circumstances? She even put a bit of work into a smoky eye, for it would just be a complete waste of the rest of the outfit not to do a smoky eye! She might as well be wearing a _potato sack _if she couldn't be bothered to put the effort into a smoky eye! Never mind she might be trying to look good because of other reasons. That didn't matter.

Adequately satisfied with her appearance, she maybe-frolicked down the hallway to find Lucius. They'd spent much of the day planning for contingencies, i.e.: "What is Jacques memory of his twelfth birthday?" "He received a grey horse, black spots, and rode it the whole day." They created the character of Jacques as completely as possible, and it worked out that he was very much like Lucius… without the prejudice. Or as much prejudice.

The whole rest of the day they'd only fought once or twice, or, well, maybe three times, and between them had only broken one single ceramic collectible. She considered the day a triumph.

Near the Grand Malfoy Master Suite, she could hear Lucius talking and supposed it would be more or less polite if she were to knock on the door (as opposed to bursting in unannounced). The wood of the door was old, and made a rich, satisfying, hollow noise when she knocked upon in it the way only very old wood can. Porgy opened the door promptly and was holding a pair of scissors.

"How may Porgy help Miss?" the elf asked.

"May I see Mr. Malfoy?" she asked.

"I don't see why not," replied Mr. Malfoy from within the room, and so Porgy allowed the door to open to its full hinge and she saw Lucius sitting upon a chair reading the rest of _The Daily Prophet _in his formal clothes_, _one leg crossed over the other, a towel cast 'round his shoulders, and … his hair had been cut short. _Like a Roman._ She didn't know why she'd just thought that, but it was nice. She liked it. He was more approachable, and suddenly she had the desire to run her hands through it, but she made sure to squelch that idiotic thought right away.

She smiled.

He continued to read _The Daily Prophet._

"So," he said, "Are you ready?"

Oh, good grief, could he not even look up from his newspaper to see her? Sure, she didn't really care what he thought, but she'd put some work into how she looked so he'd better notice! Not that she cared. But still! One does not just wake up with well-done smoky eye!

Porgy went about trimming up any loose ends on Mr. Malfoy's coiffure.

"As I'll ever be, I suppose," she said, meandering closer to inspect some ceramic gnome figurines on a nearby dresser, where it would be impossible for him to ignore the sparkly queen-of-the-night nature of her gown. Lucius seemed to have a lot of ceramic gnome figurines in the manor. They clinked a bit as she fiddled with them.

He looked up at her, then back to his newspaper, then back at her with a sharper, more discerning eye, and then his eyes trained slowly back to his newspaper.

"I suppose you are," was all he said.

She flicked a gnome figurine over and it plunked sideways to the polished top of the dresser.

"Please don't break those," he said long-sufferingly as he turned the page.

"I'll try," she said, flicking another gnome over on its side. It made the clinking sound of ceramics being treated horribly.

He blinked slowly and put the newspaper down to regard her.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Trying to get your attention," she said with a big smile.

It seemed as if her smile did its job, because it infected Lucius and he smiled back, and even laughed a little.

"I'll remember this when you're trying to read a book," he said.

"Don't you dare," she replied, threateningly.

"Porgy has finished, Master," said the elf, handing Lucius a mirror. "Is it sufficient?"

Lucius looked his reflection over briefly.

"Yes, thank you, Porgy," he said, handing the mirror back over his shoulder and, removing the towel, he stood up. Porgy became a flurry of straightening up and lint-removal and Lucius seemed hardly to notice as he turned his attention fully upon her. He was wearing dress robes unlike anything she'd ever seen him wear before, though equally as well-made, but these were different, more continental in style, and though mostly black as per tradition, they were accented with a rich, deep blue shade like the color of her gown, and charcoal satin, and silver buttonwork. She hated to admit it, but he looked _très bien_. Very, very _bien._ _Bien_ like a boss. It was disarming. This wasn't what she expected from Lucius Malfoy. He didn't seem like himself. He seemed like an alternate form of himself. She supposed that was the point.

"You've done well," she admitted.

He smiled.

"I mean, you really look different," she said, suddenly awkward for some reason and she looked at the gnomes and righted them and cleared her throat and inwardly groaned over her own lack of svelte.

"Good," he said. "That's what is necessary, isn't it?"

"I suppose, now we'll find out about your acting skills," she replied.

"I think you'll find those abilities to be sufficient," he said.

With all of the acting he'd done for all of his life of conniving, she was certain they would be.

"I've no doubt they're more than sufficient," she said with a sniff.

"Too sufficient?" he asked, not seeming as if he cared if there were an answer.

"Depends on circumstances, now, doesn't it?" she replied, giving him a sharp glance.

"Mercurial," he said of her, yet appreciative, and she felt strangely flattered, momentarily basking in the full radiance of his attention. For his part he seemed caught for an instant, like a moth flitting against a fine netting into which it had flown without knowing what it had done until it found itself there, disoriented, and stuck faltering until it found the sense to right itself and go on with its business.

He drew a breath and then turned to Porgy.

"I think we'll be going now, Porgy," he said.

"Yes, master."

-oOo—

The Ministry's Spring Ball was being held this year in a vast, old castle built on an island near a monastery, and, as she and Lucius apparated across the waterway that separated the castle from the mainland, Hermione felt shreds of anxiety work their way through her guts like worms. There were so very, very many ways this could all go tragically wrong.

"Keep in mind that we need to stay out of situations where I might be required to use magic. Narcissa's wand would raise all sorts of suspicions," he murmured to her, his hand gently grasping her arm as she gazed up at the castle, full of warmth, dazzled by a million fairy lights, shifted by delicate mist that radiated subtle colors, and a sky that blazed the Milky Way. She turned to gaze upon him with his platinum, _roman_ hair, open-face and so much trust buoying his countenance it took her a moment to recollect where she was and what she was doing.

She placed her hand over his and said, "Do not worry, _Monsieur Malfoi_. You are wholly under my protection, now."

Something crossed his face as she said that which she could only interpret as surprise, the sudden redefining of all previously known parameters, and profound gratitude. He said nothing else, but held out his arm for her to take, which she did, ignoring how she liked it.

They were greeted by a steward at the front entrance, who smiled at Hermione, and then gave Lucius the once-over.

"Welcome, Miss Granger," said the steward, and then, with a second lost look at Lucius he asked, "Who might I announce is arriving with you tonight?"

"Ah, this is Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine," she replied.

"_Bonsoir_," said Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine with a disarming smile.

"Indeed," said the steward.

How strange was all of this business.

"Miss Hermione Granger and Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine," announced the steward from the top of the stairs, his voice amplified by magic. Hermione tried not to notice a distinct lowering of the general conversation level as it seemed nearly everyone was quite interested in and possibly staring at whoever this mysterious Frenchman was arriving with the (presently scandalous) Miss Granger.

The stairs down had never seemed so long.

She was relieved by the sight of Luna pulling along Neville in a rush to meet them at the bottom of the stairs. Luna was wearing a froth of pale pastel frittery and it was perfect for her, and Neville was ridiculously handsome, as per usual.

"Hermione, there you are!" she said, and then looking over Lucius, and knowing full well who he was, she went on with extreme politeness, "Whom you have brought with you, might I ask?"

Hermione wanted to laugh at Luna's terrible acting abilities, but introductions were made to her, and to Neville, and to others who couldn't seem to wait to join in and find out all about Monsieur Malfoi and where he was from and why no one had ever heard of such a fascinating fellow before. It was almost like they'd been mobbed at the foot of the stairs, but by the intensely polite interest of at least a dozen people. She assumed it would have been too difficult for more than a dozen to accost them at once, and the others were biding their time.

"And you say you are related to the _Malfoys_?" asked the wife of the Secretary to the Ministry's Accounting Department.

"_Vraiment, madame_," replied Lucius, "Though one could say I am, alas, ze black sheep of ze family."

"Black sheep, you say?" inquired the Secretary from beside his wife.

"_Bien sûr, monsieur_," he replied, going on perfectly to say: "I never did quite fit in, as you say. We share different philosophies, alas."

He left enough vagueities to allow them to come to their own conclusions, and they appeared rather delighted by the idea of a Malfoy which did not share the traditional philosophies of Malfoys. It was already clear to everyone, most of whom were smart enough to conclude, that Jacques Malfoi found Hermione Granger pleasant company regardless of her blood status, and that in itself spoke volumes to the public eye regarding what sort of 'black sheep' to the rest of the Malfoys he might be.

"Monsieur Malfoi, shall we find the champagne?" suggested Hermione, also suggesting escape from the clutch of enamored English witches and wizards that thronged him.

"_Oui, allons-y,_" he said to her with a smile. The others let him go, apologizing half-heartedly for keeping them at the foot of the stairs so long, but Luna and Neville came along.

"Hermione, the two of you are simply sensational!" whispered Luna excitedly, and it made Hermione laugh because of how anxious and wholly _not_-sensational she felt. "Really, you both look _gorgeous_. And he's so _mysterious! _They'll be talking about this for ages."

"Ugh, _The Daily Prophet_ is my bane," she sighed in return, thinking of more newspaper headlines about her personal life, but at least they'd arrived at the champagne.

Taking a flute, she took stock of Lucius and his expressions and all of the little, subtle things she could interpret that no one else would. He was good at this. He was so very, very good at this. He held his champagne flute in a practice of appreciation mixed with ennui, he received every inquiry and greeting with perfect, warm, yet intriguingly detached decorum, and in between, when no one was watching (except her), he scanned the crowd with intense precision for opportunity.

"Very well, Hermione," said Harry Potter's voice, coming upon her unawares, "You've got to introduce me to your friend."

"Oh, Harry!" said Hermione, surprised and then with laughter. "Where on earth did you come from?"

"I was late," said Harry with a shrug. "You know how it is."

Ginny was with him, and, yes, he'd married her. None of the rest of them had married their school sweethearts, but of course Harry did. He'd been dying for family since the moment he'd arrived at Hogwarts and now he had it. He looked quite happy still.

"Of course I know how it is," she said to her old friend. "Harry Potter always has to make a fashionably late appearance. Oh, the drama!"

"Speaking of drama," he said, glancing at Lucius.

"Oh! Yes, of course," she replied. "This is Monsieur Jacques Malfoi du Alcase-Lorraine."

"_Bonsoir, Monsieur Potter,_" said Lucius, offering his hand. "I have, _bien sûr_, heard of ze boy who lived."

Harry regarded Lucius intently for a moment, and then put on his best false smile.

"A pleasure, Mr. Malfoi," he replied, accepting a handshake.

Oh, crap. Harry wasn't buying it. Why wasn't Harry buying it?

"How long do you expect to sojourn in England?" asked Harry politely, obviously probing for the answer to this other question: _I don't know why you're here or how you're here but when in the H. E. double-hockey-sticks are you going away (hopefully forever)?_

She could see Lucius knew Harry wasn't buying it. Lucius and Harry both knew the other wasn't buying it, yet they were both playing along. Hermione thought she might faint, or, less delicately, throw up.

"_Je ne sais pas,_" said Lucius with a noblessesque shrug, so ridiculously good at appearing wholly at ease, even when Harry by-Merlin Potter sees straight through everything in an instant. "I have unfinished business to tend to, and after zhat, we shall see."

Both men chose that moment to sip champagne in a thoroughly stress-inducing manner.

"Ahem," said Hermione, causing both men to break the champagne-stalemate and regard her. "Harry, may I have a moment?"

"Absolutely, Hermione," he said with a smile, knowing explanations would be forthcoming.

"Excuse us, _Monsieur Malfoi_," she said, smiling at Lucius. So much fake smiling. So much agony.

Lucius, within his also-fake smile, gave her a look that said, _Take care of it._ As if she wasn't going to take care of it. He didn't have to mentally tell her to do so. She let him know that with an almost eye-rolling and then walked off with Harry, who seemed comfortable enough to leave his wife with Lucius Malfoy.

As soon as she and Harry had reached the peaked, empty hall outside the ballroom, he turned to her.

"What is _that_?" he demanded, very nonspecifically.

She sighed.

"It is, isn't it," he said, again nonspecifically.

She looked up at him and didn't say no, so…

Harry's eyes widened and he just looked flabbergasted.

"But how? When? Why?" he asked. "Just answer all the questions, all of them! Then make up more questions, and answer those, too!"

"How did_ you _know?" she counter-asked, fording all of his questions with her single, burning inquiry.

"Please, Hermione," he said with a groan. "I know you. I know your penchant for outlandish adventures, because I've dragged you into half of them! You borrowed my cloak. You've been acting mysterious. You've been working at the Malfoy estate… a lot. And that face you made when we were introduced, the face you made once I began to suspect… everything, _everything_ points to him being exactly who he looks like, somehow!"

"Why do I always have to wear it all on my face?" she murmured, smacking herself on the forehead.

"Now answer my questions!"

"I'll tell you, Harry," she said, touching his arm to calm him. "But do you trust me that I know what I'm doing?"

"_Do_ you know what you're doing?"

"No," she said, and they both laughed in anguish. "But you know what I mean."

"I do, very much so," he replied. "But has he changed?"

Hermione considered that.

"I don't know," she replied. "Yes and no. He'll always be awful, but maybe what we didn't know is that he actually isn't as awful as he came across as being?"

"He gave Ginny that diary second year with the knowledge it might kill her," he said.

"Ugh, I know," said Hermione. "But, but… it's more complicated than just that."

"How? She was a child!"

"It's not like he marked Ginny for death and set out to murder her," she said.

"Still!" he said. "Still it's terrible!"

"Yes, I know, but there were other forces at work, Harry!"

"Are you defending him?"

"I am," she said, suddenly feeling cold for some reason. "Because I didn't know, and now I do."

"What didn't you know?"

"The grey," she said.

-oOo—

Harry did require some 'splaining - lots of 'splaining, actually - but once she'd done it, he accepted it for what it was and, despite a great deal of concern over her well-being, agreed that something must be done because that sort of corruption could not be tolerated in any form, even if that corruption destroyed the Malfoys. The point wasn't the Malfoys as far as Harry was concerned; it was that _any _family could be completely obliterated like that without any consequences for those who did it. He was of a mind to charge in, wands blazing, and bring the Ministry to justice, and she had to nip his Gryffindorian tendencies in the bud and assure him she and Lucius had the situation in hand.

"Slytherin subtleties rub me the wrong way," said Harry with a bit of a sullen look. "How can you even stand to work with him?"

"I hardly can, half of the time," she laughed wryly. "We fight like the dickens. But I can't let something so terrible lie unsolved, you know I can't."

"I know you can't."

"I got to punch him in the nose," she added.

"Now there's a perk."

"And his books, Harry! Oh, he's got books that you wouldn't _believe_!"

"I see you've got an ulterior motive."

"Oh, ha-ha," she said, playfully shoving his arm.

"And just so you know," he told her, regaining some seriousness, "If you and Malfoy don't fix this your way, I will, and I'll do it my way."

"I really don't want to see you do it your way," she said. "We don't need another wizarding war."

"Who says I'll start a war?"

She leaned closer just in case. "He's a good Minister, Harry. All told, he really is. He doesn't necessarily need removed."

"Hermione! After what he's done!"

"You've got to see the big picture, Harry!" she said. "What would you do, run the Ministry yourself?"

"Of course not, I've got to run the Aurors."

"Well, then who?"

"You'd be good at it," he said.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, but Harry was serious.

"Don't even think about knocking out the Ministry leadership and setting up your own puppet government, Harry," she said, only half-serious.

He seemed to find that amusing.

"Why shouldn't I?" he said.

"Look at you, Harry, you've more in common with _Monsieur Malfoi_ than you realize," she smirked.

He poked her in the middle of the forehead as punishment.

"Ow," she said.

"Let's go make sure the good _Monsieur _hasn't tormented my wife too badly, shall we?" he asked, and she agreed.

As they arrived back in the ballroom, it appeared that the good _Monsieur _wasn't tormenting Ginny Potter at all, but instead was _dancing _with her, and she seemed to be having a wholly delightful time.

"Now that's just wrong," said Harry, stating Hermione's exact thoughts, as they watched the effortless charm of the dancing pair. "Wrong, wrong, wrong. Come, dance with me, and we'll break this up forthwith. He is _not_ allowed to dance with my wife."

And so, Harry and Hermione danced too, right over to where Lucius and Ginny were, and eavesdropped long enough to hear a snippet of their conversation.

"You've an estate, Monsieur? And it is in Alsace-Lorraine?" asked Ginny.

"_Mais oui_, as all _Malfoi_ do," he replied.

"What's it like?" she asked.

"_Madame_, it is but modest," he said cordially, "upon ze Rhine."

"Sounds delightful," she smiled.

"It is fine," he said with his noblesse shrug.

Ginny seemed charmed by his modesty… fake modesty, Hermione reminded herself, as she wondered if the Malfoys actually owned a small estate on the Rhine. They probably did.

"Well, hello there," said Harry loudly and blandly, breaking up the dance with his best fake smile. "I've come to collect my wife."

"As you like," said Lucius, letting Ginny go. "We shall trade, _oui?_"

"That's up to Hermione," smiled Harry.

"Oh, yes, well," said Hermione awkwardly. "Why not?"

"Such a delight, _Monsieur Malfoi_," said Ginny.

"_Merci, Madame Potter," _he replied.

"Hermione's filled me in on your unfinished business, Mr. Malfoi," said Harry, not at all friendly. "I will be interested to see its conclusion."

He gave Lucius a steely gaze, one that he'd vintaged through war, suffering, and his twenty years of Auror service and leadership, and danced away with Ginny.

Lucius looked at Hermione.

"You told him?" he asked.

Oh, he didn't know how these things worked. He didn't know that when one forges a friendship like she, Harry, and Ron had done all those years ago, that nothing, _nothing _breaks that trust, and governments, municipalities, and organizations can never get between it. For Harry, she would always come first. They'd been through enough to where he knew that if she was doing something, it was worthwhile and it was important, and it was hers, and he wouldn't interfere. He might help, but he wouldn't interfere. He trusted her. In that moment she kind of pitied Lucius, because he didn't know that. He didn't know real friendship. He didn't know what was real. How terrible!

"_Quelle horreur!" _Hermione sighed softly, wondering at Lucius and his lack of real friends.

"_C'est vrai,"_ he replied, in full agreement.

"No, no, not that," she said, waving away his assumptions. There was something delightful about the possibility that _she _could be the person to show Lucius Malfoy what it was like to actually truly, really, wholly trust another person, to know that, no matter what, she would have his back, that with her, he was safe. He could be _safe_. What a gift to give to another person! Was there anything that could compare?

She took his hands and said, "Let's dance."

"But-," he said as, somewhere behind him, the Undersecretary to the Interior of Artifacts called out to Monsieur Malfoi, but as Lucius began to turn, Hermione wasn't having any of it, and she pulled him back with a smile.

_"Ne regarde pas en arrière," _she said. "_Gardes les yeux sur moi." _

He said, _"Tu me caches quelque chose." _

"_Tais-toi,"_ she said, "_et danser avec moi."_

He relented in an instant, and took her 'round the waist and danced with the sort of perfection that comes from decades of training in the art of being prepared to gracefully face any situation, no matter how strange or dangerous or alarming. He didn't speak again until she did.

Within the relative privacy of his arms she could speak to him, her voice low, and it would only seem to others that they were making small talk, and if she relished the scent of autumn and a thousand memories whilst she did so, well, that was her secret to take to the grave.

"Harry trusts me," she said, glancing up at him to give assurance. He didn't look wholly assured. She supposed Harry and Lucius were, in a way, _nemeses. _

Of course Harry had had all kinds of nemeses. Voldemort, Snape, Draco… she was certain if she considered it she'd come up with a half-dozen other names. The guy was really good at creating polar relationships with other men.

"Does he," murmured Lucius.

She just smiled at him, waiting for him to relent again. He did.

His eyes flickered and there was a softening about his face. "Very well. I'll believe you."

"But if we don't manage what we set out to do, he's going to fix it _his_ way," she said.

"I think I can guess what his way might be," he said. "Does it have anything in common with your original plan?"

She chuckled. "Maybe exactly like my original plan."

"Oh, you Gryffindors are all so very predictable," he said to her, his face both condescending and adoring. It came off more condescending than adoring.

She replied by using the arm she'd draped around his shoulder to pinch the back of his neck sharply between her fingers.

"Ouch," he said, and she smiled warmly. "So, how much time would you say we have before Potter reaches meltdown?"

"I'll handle 'Potter'," she said with a laugh, and then, spotting something for which it was worth being interrupted, she pulled him close and whispered into his ear, "Shacklebolt at your ten o'clock."

She felt him turn his head to look, glance, or whatever. She was sure he did it strategically, for she definitely trusted his talent in subtlety.

"Ah, so he is," he whispered near her ear, and something about his whisper sent a chill through her, and she was suddenly very aware of his closeness. She could feel his lips hovering near her ear, could hear faint hints of his breathing, and she realized he was holding her, and she was holding him, and it was still a dance, but it could have been easily mistaken for an embrace. It happened so _easily, _before she'd even known it was happening. She tried to think of what to say as the event horizon drew her with a gravity heretofore unperceived. He brought her dancing hand into his chest, she found herself glorying in the abundance of his scent, and he whispered something soft and percussive against her cheek. She sighed into his ear with the attempt to remember what he said, but his hand splayed on her back and forced her closer against him and she forgot everything.

For a time, she merely danced in the wonderful, magnificent embrace of a perfect man, in the perfect, sparkling, fairy lights of the most perfect ball ever created. She forgot all, except this one, singular, perfect moment and within this moment, she lived and time lost existence. She observed distantly that as time lost existence, she gained it. She was truly _existing_ in the best of ways.

The song ended and he released her with the reluctance of melting snow. She felt dazed, embarrassed, intrigued, and so much of her protested the warmth's end. Somewhere, distantly, a small part of her mind was screaming at her to get it together and go molest Shacklebolt conjointly, but the rest of her mind squished that part with a hug and told it there'd be more than enough time for that… later. Lucius took her hand and drew her outside to the gardens, and she went willingly.

Above the hedgemaze and rosebushes and stone pillars, the sky consumed her vision with a billion singing stars.

"We should talk," said Lucius, encroaching on her fragile existence.

"Hmnn," she said, little more than a sigh or a moan, or something in between, not wanting to lose the sensation of the feeling she'd just experienced, which now only echoed through her, mirroring what was but with each reverberation becoming less a true representation. She was losing it, and she mourned its loss, grasping at fragments.

They both leaned back upon a stone rail and gazed up at the stars, maintaining mutual quiet for the moment. In time, Lucius' voice brushed against the silence, voicing words now familiar to both of them.

"I feel the need to stress to you the necessity that our investigation be unfettered by the complications of romance," he said softly.

"Hm, yes, I agree," she replied. "Wholly and one-hundred percent."

And because of her tendency to deflect and avoid, she went on.

"But you needn't worry about that with Harry," she said. "He's married."

He wouldn't have any of it.

"So am I."

She wouldn't have any of _that._

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"You are _not._"

"_Hermione!_"

"What?"

"Do not tell me what I am and what I am not!"

"You're in denial!"

"You speak of that which you know nothing!"

_And it was all going so well…_

Making a highly irritated noise, she made to stomp off deeper into the gardens, but he caught her wrist before she could do it.

"Sometimes, I think you're not so bad," he said. "I think you're actually quite nice, even pleasant to be around, perhaps even _more _than pleasant... but then, you say something horrible and offensive and … and… dare I say _cruel_ and the illusion goes up in thin air and I'm left standing with a clay golem."

"Oh, how can you accuse anyone of _cruelty_?" she returned, lowering her voice to a fierce, confidential whisper: "And how _twisted _was it that you were so pleasantly dancing with the woman on whom you planted a nefarious, possibly _murdersome_ diary when she was just a child! That you can fake such pleasantry is absolutely terrifying."

She twisted her wrist out of his grasp with a yank and stomped down into the garden, her present goals being consumed with getting away from him.

"You know it was more complicated than that," she heard him say behind her.

"Oh, please," she groaned with a weary wave at a passing stand of roses, "Is that what Voldemort would say, too, were he here?" She proceeded to do a (admittedly terrible) impression of Voldemort: "Yess, I tried to kill everyone, but it wass more complicated than thaa-aat." She waved her hands mystically, turning back to the Lucius. He followed and she bowed theatrically to say, "Forgive mee-ee… I'm sso different now…"

Lucius' expression darkened, finding no humor in that at all. "I'm not Voldemort," he said.

"No," she said. "You're not."

She turned and began walking around a fountain.

"Then what do you want me to say?" he asked, following her again, exasperation beginning to show at the edges of his voice. "I did what I judged to be most advantageous for my family at the time."

"You judged poorly."

"We've been through this already!"

"That doesn't change it."

"I did what I had to do!"

She rounded on him.

"Why don't you ever just try to do what is _right? _Just try it! Just once!_"_

"What is 'right'! How do you know what is right and what is wrong? Who made you the judge of good and evil, Hermione?"

"Who gave you the right to do whatever you want to whomever you want, if only you judge it to be _to your advantage_?"

"I did!"

"Oh look at you, you've become the god of your own universe," she said, with a condescending flourish.

"A fine case of the pot calling the kettle black," he rejoined bitterly.

"At least _my_ universe has rules and morality," she said, bitterness creeping into her own voice as well.

"You wouldn't even know how to function in mine. You'd be lost, helpless… useless." The last word he spat out with disgust.

"You might finally find happiness in mine," she replied, and he gave her a sharp look.

"Hypocrite! You know nothing of happiness!" he said. "You don't even know how to find it yourself. Don't speak like an expert on something of which you clearly know so very little."

That actually hurt. It was probably the truth in it that hurt so much, and she was equal parts angry and sad and that meant an attack from tears wasn't far behind. She turned quickly into the garden with much more fervor to avoid the humiliation of Lucius seeing he'd actually hurt her. The hedgemaze gave her the privacy she wanted. Tears were cruel and unrelenting at times like these, humiliating taskmasters that take your pride and flush it down the toilet.

Why didn't she bring a handkerchief with her? She'd gone to the ball with _Lucius Malfoy, _why hadn't she anticipated tears? There were _always_ tears with him around! Oh, bloody seven sticks of Hades, why couldn't they get along? And why, sometimes, did they get along _so well_? Their potential for beautiful harmony made it that much worse when they were painfully dissonant.

The stars roamed above the hedge tops like an eternal wheel of light, and that was all she saw as she wandered the endless turns of the maze until she came to a dead end with a stone bench and statue of a minotaur. She was glad it wasn't a real minotaur. One never knows in magical gardens.

The bench called to her, and she plopped down upon it to finish getting over her tear spasms, to salvage her smoky eye as best she could, and to sigh in the aftershocks of emotional intensity. The stars didn't change. How did they manage such stability? How could she have that for herself? Oh, she wanted it so very badly.

A faint trail of silvery light came to find her, followed shortly by Lucius. He put Narcissa's wand away and looked as if he'd been through the emotional wringer trying to find her in the maze. Approaching her, he stood before her where she sat on the bench. He held out his hand.

She glanced at his hand, considering not taking it at all, but when she looked up at him, he looked as if he needed her to take his hand and it was that vulnerability that convinced her to do it, because she needed this, too, in some way, somehow.

She took his hand and stood, and as their gazes met, he lifted her hand to his mouth and he kissed it, and she felt a new tear fall to her cheek as he gently turned her hand. He kissed her palm and her breath hitched.

"I feel the need to stress to you," she breathed, irony filling her words, another tear falling to her cheek and his kisses possessing her hand and then wrist, "the necessity that our investigation be unfettered … by the complications of … romance."

His gaze fell upon her and he touched her cheek, his fingers pressing into her jawline, his thumb gently wiping one tear of shame away. He was so kind, so tender, so _wonderful_, when he wanted to be. It made her cry harder.

"No," he protested softly against the resurgence of tears, brushing away the sum of her anguish with his hand. "Don't cry," he said, soft, soft, warmth, kindness. "Please…"

She fell into the arms of autumn and a thousand memories, for his shoulder was to become her handkerchief and his embrace her covering, and that was all.

"Lucius," she sighed against his neck, the utterance of his name both an endearment and a pleading. His hands moved across her back in reply. "Lucius," she whispered again, and then her breath hitched softly in a teary aftershock. "Why can't we get along?"

His hand came up to caress the nape of her neck gently, once. "I don't know," he whispered, with an honest sound about the words.

"I want to," she whispered.

"Me too," he replied.

"Very badly," she said.

"So do I," he said.

"Then, let's," she said.

"Very well," he replied.

They maintained their embrace for some time, neither one fully believing the other's words, but wishing with a burning sadness that they could be true.

When he spoke again it was with an intense gentleness against her hairline, near her temple.

"Now do you see why this… this gets in the way of our work? We should be in there, subtly accosting the Minister, but instead, here we are, agonizing over… over… _je ne sais quoi_."

"Yes, of course I see."

His sigh was marvelous against her hair.

"But I don't think it could be avoided, Lucius."

"Hermione."

"Could it?"

"No."

She took his robes in her fists tightly, and held the embrace, willing him to continue whispering upon her brow, and never leave.

"We are searching for the common ground, Lucius, and we're going mad trying to find it."

"Do you think it exists?"

"Yes."

"There's more hope in you than me."

"Then borrow from mine."

"A beguiling thought."

"Do it."

He kissed her brow in response.

"How can you make me question everything I've ever known," he sighed against her forehead.

"What a paradox that I should feel the same."

She touched his face in order to connect with his gaze, and there was truth between them for a fleeting moment. Running her fingertips across the freshly-shaven fine grain of his face, she fell into a wry sort of smile, but he absorbed her affection and only looked painfully lost.

"Do you have any idea how much I _love_ conspiring with you?" she asked him with a hint of a soft laugh.

"How much?"

"Too much."

"Impossible."

She laughed again, a half-hearted thing.

"I look forward to it every day. I wake up excited about what the day will hold, what we will do, what we will talk about, what we will discover-," she said, and he cut her off.

"So do I," he said.

"I don't want to forget all of this," she said suddenly, a desperate thread of urgency in her voice.

He drew a breath while forming a reply, but she went on.

"I know I shouldn't care, but I do, I don't want to forget this, it makes me feel terrible to think that this, all of this, might never exist," she said. "That I might not remember any of it, that I might forget… you."

"But it's been terrible! Oh, Hermione, the fighting, the ideological clashing, the, well, _insane lack of sleep _at the very least!"

"But hasn't it been wonderful?"

"How can you say such a thing…?"

"But hasn't it?"

Yes, she could see he agreed that, somehow, it was wonderful, she saw it all over his face. For once.

"Hermione…"

"Oh, Lucius, I will miss you, I'll will miss you so much it will almost kill me but I won't even know what I'm missing!"

He looked as if he could hardly stand it, the precipice upon which they hung, and the two opposite sides of the same coin of which they each were.

"Don't worry," she whispered, letting her hands slip into and through his hair, and it was as wonderful as she had tried not to imagine. She shook her head, never meaning anything more in her life, "Don't worry, Lucius, I am here _for you." _

His breath caught as she said those last words. Had anyone ever said anything like that to Lucius Malfoy?

"No matter what, we will do what must be done," she whispered.

He seemed not to know how to thank her, nor how to express whatever was coursing through his systems, nor how to process his wildly altered ideologies or timelines, nor how to hold her adequately nor what to do with her at all, nor how to even exist in that moment.

She watched him think, as it was always a fascinating exercise, and pairing it with running her fingers through his platinum roman hair was, perhaps, nirvana realized. But he, Lucius, was clearly having a crisis and she could not take her eyes off of its unfolding, as he was caught in her gaze, and her wrench had jammed his gears, and for a moment he was blind and deaf and dumb as he drew an unsteady breath and fought, oh, he fought so very hard to regain his focus and to process it, to process everything, to process _her_.

His exhale came out shaky and she watched him submerge deeply inside himself and then find the thing upon which he could focus, and his whole countenance changed with an intense, slave-like pinpoint focus, and she saw all over his face what it was; he was going to kiss her. _He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. _

The event horizon came at her like the siren song of death. She would never come back from this, never, not ever.

Sirens and alerts and red flashing lights and red flags and ambulances and police forces and swat teams went mad inside her head as the realization drove through her psyche like the cracking dive of an icepick. As he leaned in, she gasped and drew back in self-defense.

They stood facing each other, rooted in shock over the other's behavior, neither understanding the other, both terrified. She was definitely terrified, at least. He simply looked it.

"I-feel-the-need-to-stress-to-you-the-necessity-that-our-investigation-be-unfettered-by-the-complications-of-romance," she said quickly, so quickly… insanely, really.

They both possessed the labored breathing of one who had just sprinted up a flight of stairs.

Then Lucius began to laugh.

It was completely baffling. Why was he laughing? Whatever it was, it was extraordinarily funny. To him, anyway. He looked up at the sky and turned away and took in his surroundings and laughed again. Hermione could do nothing but stare at him as if he'd lost his mind, but Lucius had reached a different conclusion.

"You're crazy," he said, leaning a hand on the minotaur statue.

"I'm not crazy," said Hermione, maybe too quickly. There was too much adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"Oh, yes," he said, seeming quite sure of himself. "You're stark raving."

"I'm not crazy," repeated Hermione.

"And you're trying to drive _me_ crazy along with you," he said.

"You just tried to kiss me! What am I supposed to do?"

"Let me?"

She opened her mouth to reply but the audacity of his response resulted in her emitting a high-pitched squeak.

"Like a normal person," he added, gesturing conversationally.

"But the investigation! The unfettering with romance!" she protested.

"As if that ever stops _you_," he said.

"But," she tried again, "You're married!"

"Oh, _now_ I'm married?" he replied, fury bursting across his face.

"Well, you think you are!" she said, and then, "Are you a philanderer?"

"Unbelievable. I'd love to hex you into next week."

"I'd like to see you try!"

He laughed again.

"Hermione Granger," he said, and then he looked tired. "I believe you could drive any man crazy."

He half-turned away, leaned back against the statue, and with folded arms he looked up at the sky.

"Fine," she relented, her voice sounding small in their space. "I'm afraid," she admitted.

"Afraid of what?"

"That if you kiss me," she began, faltered briefly, and then went on: "I won't be able to let you go."

Lucius sighed and cast his eyes down from the sky.

"I'm trying to keep a certain level of detachment," she said, "and, yes, maybe that makes me seem like my behavior is a little crazy sometimes. It's because I have to, I _have_ to keep part of myself separate from you. It's because you're right, you were right all along, romance causes all kinds of awful problems, and in the case of you and I, we've only barely begun to scratch the surface! Imagine if we hadn't been as careful as we have been!"

"I'd rather not," he said, glancing aside, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"The investigation would be a shambles."

"Isn't it currently?"

She sighed at Lucius.

His glance meandered back to her.

"You look beautiful tonight, you know."

She didn't know how to accept that compliment from him, right now, coming out of nowhere.

"Oh," she stammered. "Th-thank you."

He allowed his head to fall back against the statue and sighed quietly, "_Il n'y a pas de quoi."_

"In good news, it looks like everyone but Harry positively adores _Monsieur Malfoi_," offered Hermione.

"Yes, that is good news," he replied. "Unfortunately it seems we've missed most of the ball due to in-fighting."

"It would be too hasty to really go after Shacklebolt so soon, anyway," said Hermione with a shrug.

"Though I'd love to disagree, I believe you are right," he said. "Familiarity breeds contempt. Curiosity killed the cat."

"And do both of those apply at once?" she asked with a little laugh.

"Why, yes. A little _Monsieur Malfoi_ will likely go a long way," he said. "Starting Monday, I'll begin the process of applying to inherit the Malfoy fortune."

"_The Daily Prophet_ will be on fire," she said. "Prove Monsieur Malfoi is benevolent and the Malfoy inheritance is yours."

"Mine in a way that I can practically apply it, anyway."

"Yes, yes, because it was already, in actuality, _yours,_" she said wryly.

"Always," he said.

"So, despite all the things that might lead one to believe the contrary," she said. "Tonight was actually a complete success."

"Strangely enough," he added, appearing as surprised by the outcome as she. "We did what we set out to do."

"Then, I suppose we're done?"

"Yes, I suppose we are."

A hesitation.

"I-I enjoyed parts of it," she offered.

He shifted his weight against the statue.

"A lot," she added.

He smiled wryly.

"You look nice," she addendum-ed.

He shifted his glance to her, seeming to wonder what she was going on about.

"Really nice," she threw on top of the pile of additions.

Finally he just laughed again.

"You do!" she protested through his laughter.

"Thank you," he finally said with a smile, straightening himself from the statue and coming to approach her. He held out his hand for hers. "One more dance, then."

"What? Here?"

But she gave him her hand, anyway.

"I won't kiss you," he said.

"You won't kiss me?" she asked as he drew her close.

"No," he said, gently curling a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I won't."

"Well, then, in _that _case," she said, straightening his collar with affection, "_Dansons, monsieur_."

He took her into his arms and danced with her under the watchful, frozen eye of the pale stone minotaur, the protection of the evergreen hedges, and beneath the turning, turning sky. Not once did he try to kiss her, and she knew he wouldn't anyway, because the truth was she trusted him, maybe with her life.

The real truth, the one that she avoiding thinking about, was that she wholly, one-hundred-percent didn't trust _herself._ Not at all. Not where _Lucius Malfoy_ was concerned.

-oOo-

_**A/N: Translation just before Lucius and Hermione's first dance: **_

**_"Ne regarde pas en arrière," _she said. "_Gardes les yeux sur moi."_**

**He said, _"Tu me caches quelque chose."_**

**"_Tais-toi,"_ she said, "_et danser avec moi."_**

**_"Don't you dare look back," she said. "Just keep your eyes on me." _**

**_He said, "You're holding back." _**

**_"Shut up," she said, "and dance with me."_**

**_Thanks for reading! And for reviewing! And for favoriting! 3_**

**_I drew/painted Hermione and Lucius at the ball, it can be found on my DeviantArt page, under the name planussea. There are a couple more drawings/paintings from this fanfic there, as well. _**


	21. Supermassive Black Hole

_**A/N: Muse's Supermassive Black Hole pairs well with this chapter. **_

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: LETTERS, SO MANY LETTERS

Sunday broke into existence with the fiery exclamations of a million rays of sunlight. Strangely enough, it was cold and drizzly outside Hermione's flat window, yet for some reason she felt like it was a brilliant, sunny spring day. Winter hung on, losing, losing, losing. How winter seemed to hate losing, but it wouldn't be long, now, before spring would have full reign over the world for a while.

There was a sort of fuzzy, warm feeling with which Hermione had woken. Not only had the previous evening been, somehow, a total success, she and Lucius had parted ways feeling amicable and optimistic.

An owl tapped at her window, offering a letter wrapped in a leather satchel for protection from the weather.

_Dear Hermione, _

_Thank you for last night. It was pleasant. Most of it. No, it was all pleasant, even the worst of it. I'm sorry I like fighting. Sometimes one is just born with these tendencies. Sometimes it is nice just to feel something, regardless of what sort of something that is. _

_I shall draw up papers today and hire a lawyer to present them at the ministry tomorrow. If all goes well with the inheritance it will be but a natural course to retrieve Draco from the hospital and bring him home, where he should be, and then perhaps Mrs. Longbottom can have a look at him. Maybe then we will finally understand everything that happened that night and… all will be resolved. _

_Porgy asked after you, wondering where you were, as if you were somehow now a resident of the manor. How ridiculous that would be! House elves have such strange ideas sometimes. Although, I will admit it is very quiet without you around to break any of my porcelain. _

_Check The Daily Prophet._

_Until next, mon vous_

_Jacques. _

She supposed it was his clandestine nature that made him sign it 'Jacques', since intercepted letters from 'Lucius' would probably raise questions. He was always so careful about things like that. Well, he would get a reply after she checked _The Daily Prophet, _which, having been delivered through her fireplace floo, lay curled up on the floor.

**_LONG LOST MALFOY FOUND IN ALSACE-LORRAINE BY HERMIONE GRANGER_**

It sounded like whoever wrote that jumped to a few conclusions.

_Miss Hermione Granger, fresh off of a torrid love affair with a man half her age, (_someone was REALLY jumping to conclusions) _appeared at the Ministry's Spring Ball last night with a man by the name of Jacques Malfoi of France, who seems to have been completely rejected by the rest of the now-extinct Mafloy clan due to philosophical differences. What were those differences? Well, one only needed to watch the canoodling on the dance floor between Miss Granger (a muggleborn) and Monsieur Malfoi (a Malfoy) to know. There is certainly something very interesting going on between these two born of different stations!_

_"He's the nicest Malfoy I've ever met!" was what Mr. Kraus said, Secretary of Accounting for the Ministry. "Quite interesting fellow, too. I hear he has an estate on the Rhine." _

_"I can hardly believe they are related!" said Mrs. Ginny Potter, who had the advantage of sharing a dance with M. Malfoi. "He was so humble and gracious, it simply blew my mind. When is the next ball?" _

_When the illustrious Harry Potter was asked for his opinion, he merely said, "No comment." However, it is well known that Mr. H. Potter has had a long antagonistic relationship with the media, and one can safely assume it has nothing to do with his opinion of M. Malfoi, who is universally acclaimed as quite charming._

The article went on to conjecture all sorts of things about Jacques Malfoi, how he is related to the Malfoys, and how the Malfoys probably ostracized him in multiple cruel ways. It also conjectured alarmingly over the nature of his relationship with Hermione, although fortunately it stopped short of asking when wedding bells would ring.

_Dear Jacques, _

_Success? They all love you. How easily you did it. _

_I still don't understand why you have so many gnome figurines in your house._

_Au revoir, mon vous aussi, _

_Hermione._

She sent the owl off with the parchment in the leather bag. The next owl came without as much protection and the parchment was kind of damaged.

_Hermione, _

_What in the world were you doing with him last night? I thought you were just helping him solve some problems, not canoodling with him on dance floors! Have you been possessed? Are you crazy? You do realize who this is you are doing this with, don't you? _

_Signed,_

_ALARMED HARRY. _

Oh, boy. Yes, she supposed that probably didn't look good, but she couldn't properly ponder her time with Lucius on the dance floor without chills running involuntarily down her back.

_Dearest Harry, _

_While I would like to tell you he is reformed or that he is actually quite nice, I can't say that to be the case. He is actually quite nice some of the time, if that matters, which it really doesn't, because the other part of the time he's just terrible. _

_It doesn't matter, though, none of it, because once we fix this none of this will have happened, anyway. And, by the way, don't jump to conclusions. _

_Hermione. _

She sent it off after making sure it was more fully protected against the rain. Then, shortly after, another letter came!

_Dear Hermione, _

_Well, that was a short letter. You haven't done hardly a thing to stave off my Sunday boredom. Give me some more words, I beg of you. _

_If it appears that I have a plethora of gnome figurines in my house, it is because my great aunt, of whom I was her favorite nephew, bequeathed them to me upon her death and she had an extraordinarily extensive collection. I was in the process of deciding what to do with them when I was transported two decades into the future, and since then I simply haven't had the time or drive to bother. You have, however, made the choice for me with a few of the figurines, and thus, I suppose, slightly lessening the overall quandary. I refuse to thank you, however, because your solutions always end in violence. _

_What are you doing today?_

_Rapidement mon vous,_

_Jacques._

She rolled her eyes at the Lucius who wasn't there, but maybe she also smiled. She wouldn't admit it anyway if she'd been smiling, so she instead of thinking about_ that_, she began to write:

_Dearest mon vous aussi, _

_Don't you have anything better to do? _

_Harry is alarmed. He thinks you're taking advantage of me if-you-know-what-I-mean. I assured him. So at least he won't be calling for your head on a pike. Not that he'd do that. I only know one fellow who calls for heads on pikes._

_I have to admit it's kind of boring around here, too, so I wouldn't mind reading some of those books from your library today. Sadly, I didn't have the foresight to bring any home with me from the ball so they're all still there at the manor. Sad times for me. At least you can relish the idea of my discomfort, or whatever it is that brings people like you pleasure. _

_Avoir un jour merveilleux, mon macaron,_

_Hermione._

She made herself snicker with her closing statement, and, yes, it was dumb. But whatever! Hopefully that was the last she'd hear from Lucius, today. Shortly into the process of making eggs, however, another owl came.

_Hermione! _

_What is going on between you and him? Was that all an act? That couldn't have been an act. Where did you go? Did you leave early? It looks like you might finally be getting along! _

_Well, you both did a good job. _

_Luna_

They might finally be getting along? Ha! Ha-Ha! Thrice Ha!

_Luna! _

_We certainly do NOT get along very well! Do you think me crazy? We both know who this is. Utterly impossible. Impossible, impossible. _

_He's sometimes really nice, though. _

_But how does that make up for his horribleness? It doesn't. Anyway, remember that time when you said the storm was about to break or something awfully foreboding? That turned out to be the whole thing where we had to run to avoid detection from the Ministry, right? Seems like it blew over okay. _

_I think we might be close to getting out of the thick of it. Come to the manor tomorrow, okay? _

_Hermione_

She finally finished and went on to complete her omelet, and was in the midst of making a heart-shaped squirt of ketchup upon its fold when yet _another _owl arrived.

_Mon cher de la folie,_

_When I asked for a few more words, I didn't ask for them from the Witch-Shrew of Windsor. What have you done with Hermione? _

_There is something serious we must discuss. I am not, nor will ever be, 'your macaroon'. I am sorry to break this to you so callously. I hope you can understand and eventually heal. These things can take time. Just have patience. Someday I am confident that you'll be capable of eating macaroons again without tears. You're a strong woman. You can do it. _

_Porgy asked after you again, I think the elf is obsessed with you. He wanted to know if you're coming for tea. Do you think Harry would object to you coming for tea? If so, then please come for tea. _

_Je ne suis pas un macaron,_

_Jacques._

The nerve of that macaroon. Hermione would _not_ allow Lucius to stir the pot with Harry. It was possible that the second paragraph of his most recent letter made her laugh out loud, but she wasn't about to admit it or ruminate upon it. Also, because it was a boring, boring Sunday, tea with Lucius was tempting, because tea with Lucius could never be boring. She almost apparated over to the manor instantaneously. Almost. But she didn't.

_À ma chère chérie, la plus aimée macaron,_

_I see what you're about. This is about causing Harry mild distress, because that's what people like you do; revel in causing mild distress to others. How could I possibly agree to such a nefarious plan? I would have said yes, but alas, you've made your intentions quite clear, sir. _

_Terrified of your malevolence, _

_Hermione. _

Feeling very satisfied, she ate her eggs joyfully. Once she'd begun to clean up, though, another owl came.

_Hermione! _

_Well, I'm not so sure the storm has passed. It doesn't feel like it, anyway. But you never cared for the eye, did you! Also, I think you like Lucius. How strange! Why do you like him so much? _

_See you tomorrow! _

_Luna_

Hermione just stared at the letter in disbelief. Where did Luna get an idea like that? She tossed the letter aside and went into her sitting room, and gazed over a few piles of books, feeling very _ennui_ about them all. She really did wish she had those books at the manor, they were so very interesting and would be so very nice to have with her right now. Another owl came.

_Mon cher folie, _

_Tea was so very boring. I surmise that this is all part of your plan to inflict torture upon me. I am quite literally dying of boredom and you stubbornly refuse to leave your flat. I feel it important to inform you that I now loathe you with the burning passion of a thousand suns. _

_Goodbye forever,_

_Jacques._

-o-o-o-

_Darling Jacques, _

_Will you be flinging yourself off of a cliff or throwing yourself in front of a train? Your denouement seemed so very permanent. I might be slightly worried, but only slightly. Do not get your hopes up. I am mostly only interested in knowing the details of how you plan to end it all. (You do tend to be creative about dramatics)_

_H._

-o-o-o-

_My dearest Hermione, _

_In my last, final act of defiance, I shall never reveal to you the way in which I will end my miserable, tragic, and possibly agonizingly beautiful life. _

_Also: I ordered Porgy to make dinner for two. _

_J. _

-o-o-o-

_Darling Jacques, _

_How interesting, are you expecting company for dinner?_

_H. _

-o-o-o-

_H.,_

_You. _

_J. _

-o-o-o-

_J.,_

_Me what?_

_H._

-o-o-o-

_H., _

_If you don't come over right now, I will find nefarious ways to make you TRULY slightly uncomfortable._

_J. _

-o-o-o-

_Nefarious J.,_

_You'll not get anywhere with threats. _

_Benevolent H. _

-o-o-o-

_Demanding H., _

_Please. _

_Annoyed J._

-o-o-o-

_Darling J.,_

_I thought you'd never ask._

_Delighted H._

-o-o-o-

Maybe she primped a little before heading over, maybe.

A knock upon his front door. Lucius himself pulled it open and, taking her by the wrist, pulled her inside. It was all rather possessive-seeming and then he brought her wrist to his lips and kissed the inside of it with a sharp impatience that made her forget everything else.

"What took you so long?" he sighed against her wrist.

"I don't know," she sighed back, falling helplessly into his embrace.

This was _not_ the way conjoint investigators were supposed to behave! She said as much, well, whispered as much, into his neck.

"No, it isn't," said he, his hands moving across her back in a very non-professional manner. "But I blame you for taking so long before you deigned to come!"

"Blame me?"

"Yes, if you'd just come for tea I'd have been able to control myself, but you stubbornly refused and thus built up this unbearable anticipation," he said. "How manipulative you are!"

"Indeed, I'm a right siren, I am," she sighed, mocking herself inwardly and outwardly, but not really caring because she was where she wanted to be. She hadn't even known this was where she wanted to be until she was here. Maybe she'd known unconsciously.

"At least we can both agree that everything is your fault," he said.

She pulled back a little and gave him a droll side-eye.

"I acquired a lawyer," he said, ignoring her side-eye completely.

"How efficacious you are," she replied, pretending she wasn't still in his arms. "But everything is not my fault."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't."

"I suppose you are entitled to your opinion," he said, releasing her. "Now that all _that_ is out of the way, shall we get down to business?"

"All _what _is out of the way?_"_ she laughed. "And what business?"

"Oh you know, the affection," he said. "And then you say something annoying and it becomes unpleasant, and then we can _really _get some work done."

She laughed again.

"You've got this down to a science, have you?" she asked him.

He smiled at her and beckoned her to the library.

"Hurry, it's only a matter of time before the affection builds up again," he said. "And we've lots to do beforehand."

It was all so bizarre that she couldn't help but to utterly comply, as they spent the next few hours on a couch in the library discussing (sometimes with animated excitement) the ins and outs of current Ministry and/or Wizarding World politics and how best to use the tools they possessed to affect and coerce both into shapes that would be to their best advantage (and in Hermione's case, to the advantage of the greater good). Dinner was fine, and Lucius was compliant enough towards Hermione's proclivity towards the benefits of the greater good, as long as it didn't directly conflict with his plans. They got along wildly well. It turned out to be, weirdly enough, one of the most enjoyable nights of her life.

"You know, you'd make a decent Minister of Magic," he told her at one point.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she replied, rejecting the idea forthright.

"You'd have to, you know, stabilize a bit first," he said. "You're a little unstable."

"Ha!" she told him. "Do tell me how to stabilize myself, Lucius."

"Marriage does that to a person. You need marriage."

"What is your thing with marriage?" she said, giving him a peer.

"What's your thing with not-marriage?" he replied.

"I don't have a not-marriage thing!"

"But you're not married," he said, thankfully not mentioning her age conjointly, but she was sure he was implying it.

"It never worked out with anyone," she said.

"I can see why, actually," he said.

"Oh, really!"

"No, no, you in particular wouldn't make a good match with just anyone," he said.

"Oh, really?"

"You're too clever, for one thing."

She didn't know how to reply.

"There's too much going on in your mind, all the time, there's hardly a man alive who could keep up with it."

She laughed a little, vaguely.

"And you'd be bored witless by anyone who couldn't."

"There's some truth in that," she said, considering some of her past relationships.

"And then there's your attractiveness," he said. "Usually a woman of your intelligence is homely."

She snerked.

"But you're not," he said.

This conversation was seeping across the line into the embarrassing as she felt her cheeks grow annoyingly warm.

"So there's a quandary," he said to her.

"What is the quandary?" she asked him.

"How can we possibly find someone good enough for you?"

She felt extremely uncomfortable at that moment, and decided deflection was in order.

"You're slathering me in compliments," she said. "So what is it you want?"

He laughed.

"To conspire with you again," he replied.

"That can probably be arranged," she said, but she felt a tinge of pain knowing that it couldn't be forever. And that she would soon forget this night, one of the most enjoyable nights of her life, because it _will have never happened. _

"Don't think about that," he said.

"Ugh," she said putting a hand over her eyes, "You read my face! Why are you so good at reading my face?"

He pulled her hand away from her face and replied gently, "It isn't hard."

"If it isn't hard," she said. "Then read it, now."

And she let her face say to him all of the things she never wanted to say out loud, never, ever, and how she didn't want him to leave despite the selfishness of the want, and how she hated him and loved him and hated the things he did and loved the time she spent with him and how all of it had pulled her into a sort of double-polar black hole constant eruption state, where she lay in an eternal point of light at the event horizon moving neither forward or back and it was stretching her beyond bearing.

His gaze moved across her face and he absorbed her emotion, absorbing it like a black hole sucking down light, but the strange thing about it was that the inky blackness wasn't a terrifying _nothing_ like she'd previously assumed. It wasn't nothing! She could feel it, it felt like something, something, something _was on the other side._ She wanted that something, she wanted to be closer to that something, to _know_ that something, she wanted to have it, she wanted to _possess it_, to control it, to wield it like a flame of exploding light-matter-galaxy-center agony. She could see it now, with all the fine-grain star-flare dilation of a contracting pupil. Together, she and he would _create and destroy universes._

His lips parted and he caught his breath, and she wanted to kiss or kill him so badly she nearly radiated out of her own skin. He turned out of the line of fire before she could erupt.

As he stood she noticed his hands were trembling.

_This is bad. _

_Or is it good? _

_It's bad. But good. But bad! But oh, so good. _

_Oh, the eternal quandary. _

"Shall you be returning home tonight or shall I have Porgy make up the guest room for you?" he asked, politely, pulling a book from shelves here and there.

She wasn't of a mind to decide, because she wasn't as capable as he was of _completely and totally changing tack like that in an instant. _She just stared at him like he was insane.

"I have some things I need to see to before retiring, so I'm afraid this is the end. For today," he said, finishing choosing a stack of four books. He brought them to her, and deposited them on her lap.

She finally found the presence to stand, his books in her arms.

"I thought you'd like those," he said, and then he asked, "You'll be fine, won't you?"

"Yes," she answered, and then, after a moment: "Okay." It was bland, so very bland.

And she turned around and walked out.

It was the weirdest exit she'd ever experienced, but perhaps it was better than the alternative, not that she knew quite what the alternative was, but she had an inkling she didn't want the maelstrom of the alternative, not yet, anyway.

Winter's hate-drizzle threatened the books the instant she stepped outside and she covered them inside her coat, looking by all appearances like a woman pregnant with cubes. A gust of wind blew mist in her face and while she found herself irritated by it, she noticed the gust was _warm. _

_-oOo—_


	22. The Cello Song

_**A/N: This took a while because of Christmassy things! Thank you for your reviews, follows, and favorites. **_

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE CELLO SONG

The next morning, she arrived at the gates of Malfoy Manor more or less refreshed and perfectly respectable. The gates seemed to swing in for her when she arrived, as if the house were saying "Hello." Unfortunately, the greeting was superficial since she was still required to wear the blood of Lucius Malfoy in order to avoid ignominious death.

Luna had beaten her there and was already in the Dining Room, studying the house magic. Lucius was with her, and they seemed to be having a very pleasant, civil conversation. She didn't quite understand how he could be so very docile will Luna 100% of the time and with _her_, well, it was quite a completely different story. She watched them from the doorframe, like a stalker.

"And you've said that you believe the house is waiting, but you don't know for what it might be waiting?" Lucius was asking Luna.

"No, well," she said, stopping herself. "I can sort of sense it. It's waiting for something to happen before it acts."

"Do you have any idea how to perceive for what it might be waiting?" he asked. Hermione found herself appreciating his grammar. He also looked nice. Ugh. She really did like his hair _Romanized. _Suppressing the color which was trying to flush her face, she moved back slightly to extend her time unperceived.

"That's one of the things I've been trying to do," said Luna, "but it isn't easy to talk to a house."

"No, I suppose it isn't," replied Lucius with a wry smile.

"Granted, this manor is by far the most interesting house I've ever dealt with," said Luna with a smile.

"Thank you?" he asked, not sure if it was a compliment.

"Definitely," she said, and they shared mutual good will. Who was this agreeable man?

"Ah, I've a few books I think you might find useful," he said, as if he'd just remembered something. "One moment."

And then he turned straight towards the doorframe in which Hermione lurked and their eyes met, and he froze, and so did she, but to his credit he was caught off-guard by her presence so briefly that it would take a practiced eye to notice it. She saw it, though, and as he strode to approach her his gaze didn't leave hers for an instant.

"Good morning," he said, warmly, once he was close enough to where he could qualify as 'looking down at her', or perhaps 'gazing down upon her', or possibly even 'looming dreamily above her'.

"Yes," she replied, moronically, as if she'd never learned to greet anyone in the morning before, and her behavior could be qualified as gazing up at him in a lost sort of way that she preferred not to define.

"Would you like to come with me to fetch the books for Mrs. Longbottom?"

She got her senses back like a mental slap in the brain.

"You're willingly fetching books, now?" she asked him with a critical eye.

"What are you going on about?" he asked, pressing past her into the hall, his scent only momentarily distracting her from the teasing at hand.

"Oh, you know," she said, catching up to him to walk beside. "That's the sort of thing a house elf is for, wouldn't you say?"

"That's the sort of thing for which a house elf is," he said, correcting her grammar, but his profile was amused.

"The construction of that sentence, though correct, is not very effective," she said, smiling, "but I could kiss you for your effort."

"Could you?" he inquired.

"How far to the library?" she deflected.

"Have you already forgotten where it is?" he asked, being so bold to take her hand in his as they walked. "I thought you had a perfect memory."

She glanced down at their hands, being helplessly surprised at the act of affection and familiarity, so much so that she almost didn't notice when he reached up and turned a wall-sconce. A hidden door creaked open in the wall and he pulled her into it by the hand.

"A secret passageway!" she whispered, following him along a dark passage and then up a narrow flight of stairs. He cast a spell to light the torches along the way. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he said, refusing to let go of her hand, though she had to admit she hadn't tried to resist.

On they went, passing a few narrow archers' windows that led to the outside along the way and then climbing a couple of winding stairs. Finally, they reached a narrow set of spiraling, steep, extremely old stairs and he had to release her hand out of necessity, for it was impossible to climb otherwise. She was rapidly finding herself to be out of breath with such steep climbing, and she wondered what it was on Malfoy Manor that could be so high as this.

The steps at the top were worn and uneven with age, and ended with a heavy wooden door against which Lucius shoved with his shoulder once, then twice, and then a third time with a force that would not be denied until it opened completely and the morning sunlight flooded the dark stairwell like water.

They stepped out at the top of a tower that was likely once used for defense of the Malfoy grounds, and it overlooked the lands of Wiltshire for as far as she could see. The green hills of England stretched out before them, trembling on the very edge of spring, and the sun shone upon them with joyous warmth. Soon wildflowers would erupt across the grounds, and she could hardly wait to see it happen. She rushed to a rail overlooking the scene and leaned across it, sniffing the air and completely captured by the sensory landscape.

He came up beside her and took her hand again, urging her to go yet somewhere else. But where else could there be?

"This way," he said, indicating a small pathway that seemed to go along the edge of the manor roof itself.

"Ah," she said. Without any railings on the pathway, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of height fear. "Ah…"

He pulled her in front of him and held her around her waist to give her security, and she had to admit it helped, although it made her anxious in a different way. Leading her around a turret and then helping her up a clever little inset of stairs, the path ended on a small platform that she could only imagine was probably meant for snipers. Malfoy snipers. Lucius released her.

The platform was guarded by a rail, but was placed in such a way to allow those upon it to see all the grounds unobstructed while still maintaining obscurity. No one would ever know they were up there.

"Wait," said Hermione, and Lucius stopped to look at her. "This isn't the way to the library."

He laughed, and she smiled, liking his laughter.

"Do you come up here often?" she asked.

"I haven't been up here for a long time," he said.

"I would guess at least seventeen years," she said.

He smiled at her and said, "A lot longer than that, actually. I used to play up here as a child, but I've rarely been here since."

"On the roof?" asked Hermione, shocked that any Malfoy parents would allow such dangerous behavior.

Lucius almost-shrugged. "The whole house was my playground."

"I suppose playing up here would clear one of any fear of heights," she said.

"Perhaps," he replied.

"It's lovely," she said, leaning her hands upon the railing to overlook the mild rolling hills. "It's all lovely. The weather, the grounds, even the wildness of it all."

Lucius sighed beside her, his eyes uneasy upon the wildness.

"I know it bothers you," she said, taking his arm as an act of comfort. His arm ceded to her pliantly though he remained quiet. "But it's nothing that cannot be reclaimed, and yet even now it can be appreciated for its current beauty."

They stood in comfortable silence until she spoke again.

"I've grown fond of this house," she said, and he maintained his silence, so she went on. "It's so strange and full of matter and memories and pieces of this and that and one never knows what it might do next, maybe nothing, maybe everything. But the details… there is such beauty in the details and in its enviable, strange patience. There is beauty and tragedy and joy and sadness in this house, all mixed in together so one moment one shines upon you and then the next another."

Lucius looked at her, seeming to consider her words.

"Above all one can feel its deep, encompassing protection of you," she said. "If one … listens."

Something of a smile passed his face and he brushed an errant strand of hair from her cheek.

"How lucky you are, Lucius, what a thing to possess!" she said to him.

"I don't possess it," he replied.

"Does it possess you?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"You belong to each other, then," she said.

"I suppose that's more or less how it is," he said.

"I like that," she said with a little smile.

"Do you?" he asked, leaning against the rail and regarding her with an intent gaze that made her wonder what he was getting at. At what he was getting.

"Yes," she said, not sure what else to add. He looked as if he was thinking about something else entirely, so she waited for him to go on. It didn't take him long, but he released a restless sigh before he spoke.

"Is it wrong that I want to pretend, just for a moment, that you and I are simply what we are right now, in this moment of time?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "What are we, right now?"

"What, yes," he replied, taking her hand to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand and looked out into the rolling hills without explaining.

"Aligned?" she ventured.

"Perhaps," he said, as if that were inadequate. "If we were to cut this piece of time out, to carve it out like a piece of a cake, and have it alone, how delicious would it be?"

She considered that, and then sighed, a sweet sorrow creeping into her consciousness.

"It's not our fault the rest of the cake is full of shite," he said.

"Lucius!" she objected, with an outburst of a laugh.

He gave a half-laugh and looked at her, tightening his grip on her hand.

"I want this piece. This one. This is the one I want," he said, as if she could possibly fix what was essentially the fault of all things contrived together to bring about their singular existences.

She looked down at her hand in his, and then lifted her gaze back up to the distant grounds.

"I do too," she finally complied, quiet.

"I'm afraid to hope this is happiness," he said.

The ever elusive _happiness. _That thing they both craved and never found, despite their equal but opposite dedication to ideologies and philosophies and moralities. But yes, this, right now, was it. She laced her fingers through his, if only for the current solidarity between them, and she could feel he was tense through his hand, and then his voice.

"I can never have it," he said. "It's only here, right now, and already I'm wasting it, allowing it to slip away from me because I fear losing it too much to experience it while I have it."

She turned to look at him. "Then, don't," she said.

"Don't?" he asked.

"Don't waste it."

"How?"

"Just … enjoy this," she said. "And remember it."

At least _he'll _be able to remember it. She would forget. She would have never experienced it. She felt a sharp jab of pain at that thought, at the thought of losing all of this completely, but she was determined to maintain this good, fair, pleasant moment for as long as she could, so she swallowed it and smiled up at Lucius.

He saw it on her face, he saw what she did, and her smile-against-all-odds crumbled the veneered vestige of noblesse about him and somehow, with a great release of constraints, she watched him become free, free to absorb her light and warmth into his emptiness without the barrier of control, and with the hope to someday, somehow be filled.

What he did next was done like parts that fit together in tandem to make one, complete, deep resounding note across the string of a cello. The mass of his body gracefully encroached upon her space, his hand took her face while his own face radiated new, terrifying, exhilarating freedom, and then he confessed: "_Je t'adore._"

He needed, at the least, that one barrier of language between himself and his emotions, and she let him have it.

"Do you?" she asked, her words an acceptance, allowing him to absorb her light.

"Yes," he whispered, wonder in his eyes.

She let her eyes close, sacrificial, and she gave him permission; she allowed him to kiss her, and after a weighted moment he did, slowly, bleeding into her, seeping through her like dark wine through white cloth. He was cautious and careful, meticulous, his movements expressing minute awareness of every caress of his lips and touch of his hand, and that awareness made _her_ more aware, and not a sensation was allowed to be lost or to escape experience. They'd both come to the mutual, unspoken realization that every moment of this time was precious beyond all hope of purchase.

She touched the wrist of his hand as he touched her face, letting her fingertips travel along the back of his hand to his fingers, and he touched her face and he acknowledged the touch of her hand with his, and again he touched her face, and every movement melted into the next like the edges of colored wax under hot light and he, they, she… touched in a holy chaos of feeling and being felt, and so she kissed him back, no longer the sacrifice, but taking her own.

His response to her kiss was to catch his breath against her lips, and the shift in pressure, the sudden intimacy of such familiarity with him, his mouth, his breathing, the sounds he made, his scent, his taste, his _whole_, sent a charge after charge through her, and then him, and then her, and they became embroiled in a sensual feedback loop in which sighs begat sighs and caresses begat need until they had embraced with ferocity and kissed with complete, utter, white-flag, walls-crumbled-to-nothing _surrender_.

"I am _finished,_" she sighed, meaning one thing.

"I am _not,"_ he said, meaning another, and he kissed her again.

So then she gloried in it, and they both did, glorying in the delight of the moment, of the freedom which they currently possessed, in rebellion of this happiness despite what they were and what they stood for, and they both willed that they might stay there eternally in the radiant radial glow of the sublime ring of their event horizon. Was this immortality? Was this exaltation? Was perfection only a moment stretched into forever?

What was next?

What could be next?

Was _anything_ next?

"_Hermione_," he sighed against her neck after a kiss, his embrace loosened but engaged with fragile repose, and perhaps her sigh melded with his, as nothing was clearly discernable anymore as his or hers, but only theirs, as they had become a single something, something_, something, _and then from below a warm wind surrounded them and encircled them and then, up, up, they cast their eyes to the sky, blue, brilliant, blue, brilliant, deep, deep, soft blue.

Their eyes fell to each other. He was as breathless as she.

"What was that?" she asked him.

"I don't know," he said, honestly. His hair had been ruffled by the wind and he looked adorably mussed, and as he noticed her evaluation of his current state he began to smile, and then not, and then he seemed not to know whether to smile or stop it. It was beguiling in every way imaginable.

She threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek to whisper, "How I adore the real you!"

He returned her embrace, hiding within it, hiding the real him, in the only place where the real himself could ever be safe.

In time, she murmured into his shoulder.

"Do you think we should ask Luna if she noticed anything just now?"

He murmured back into her neck.

"Maybe."

"You don't sound like you want to find out."

"Maybe."

She laughed quietly.

"Come on," she whispered, "It could be important."

He moved to gaze at her soberly.

"I think it may be," he said, his voice soft.

She fell helplessly into his gaze like she'd fallen off the plank of a pirate ship.

He kissed her once, tenderly.

"Remember this for me," she told him, meaning it to her bones.

"I will never forget," he replied.

They mourned and they gloried, and they left the platform, and they traversed the narrow walkway, and down the steep stairs, and they mourned and they gloried along the deep, hidden arteries of Malfoy Manor, past archers' windows and around chipped, ancient corners, and they loved every moment and grieved the loss of each moment as it passed.

Luna looked up as they entered the dining room.

"Did you two feel that?" she asked.

"Uhm, feel something?" asked Hermione awkwardly.

Lucius looked amused.

"Pardon Hermione, she's out of sorts," he said. "If you mean a strange, sudden gust of warm wind, then yes."

"That was it!" said Luna, pointing at Lucius.

"What was it?" he asked.

"It came from the house!" said Luna, and she seemed very excited about it. "It came through the house, from within it!"

"Oh, no, now what has the house done?" asked Hermione, expecting the worst.

"Do you know, Mrs. Longbottom?" asked Lucius.

"I think I do, or at least, maybe I do," said Luna. "Hermione, come here."

Hermione came to Luna, hesitant, and perhaps dreading the possibilities.

"Do you have the flask of Mr. Malfoy's blood handy?" asked Luna.

"I do," replied Hermione.

"Good," said Luna, pulling out a handkerchief. "Now, give me your hand."

"Oh no," said Hermione, recalling the getting-sick-off-the-balcony-and-then-sleeping-in-the-bushes incident that occurred last time she wasn't protected from _that particular ward_.

"There's no harm in experimenting," said Lucius, who seemed very interested, and probably was not recalling the his-nose-getting-punched-as-a-result part of the aforementioned incident.

"Besides, we're both here beside you, full of blood," said Luna, smiling.

"That isn't reassuring, that's macabre," said Hermione, grimacing, but holding her hand out.

Luna rubbed away the dried blood that dotted the back of Hermione's hand, and there was a tense moment of waiting wherein no one moved or blinked or possibly breathed. Another second passed, and another… and another. Hermione dared not move, yet.

Lucius' hand touched her elbow, faint, gentle.

"Anything?" asked Luna.

"N-no," breathed Hermione, but still cautious, somehow afraid that if she moved or breathed too much the ward would find her and punish her for existing.

"Ha!" cried Luna. "That's it!"

She wasn't dying. _She wasn't dying. _Why wasn't she dying? Lucius' hand tightened on her elbow and he pulled her into his arms, into a sudden, crushing embrace, and she wondered why she wasn't dying, again she wondered.

"Why aren't I dying?" she voiced aloud, muffled a bit by Lucius, but realizing Luna was also embracing her, and then it was over, they'd both released her and were looking at her for answers, which she had none.

"It appears the manor has accepted you, Miss Granger," said Lucius, straightening his sleeve, regaining his respectability, and pretending he hadn't just bear-hugged anyone. "And exempted you from all wardings."

"What did you do?" asked Luna, wide-eyed.

"Ah-ha-ha," said Hermione hysterically, pretending she hadn't kissed Lucius on the roof so many times.

Lucius looked at her, as if gauging how much information she would be willing to allow in the light of day. Hermione realized they'd have to tell Luna _something_, in order for her to be able to properly do her work in figuring out what had just happened, it was just that Hermione didn't quite like the idea of telling Luna _anything_.

"Are you glowering at me?" asked Luna of Hermione, who then realized she had, in fact, been glowering.

"No," lied Hermione, and then she quickly changed the subject back to the matter at hand, "Mr. Malfoy and I have been getting along better lately."

"I noticed that," said Luna.

"Yes," confirmed Lucius. "We have."

It was all very vague, moronically vague.

"But just now, did you do anything special?" asked Luna.

"Uh," said Hermione.

"Oh, _Merlin's grave_," said Lucius, his patience finally at its snapping point. "Just tell her. I'll be actually fetching the books."

"Oh, the books," said Hermione, remembering the un-fetched books.

"Yes, the books," he said while stalking out, presumably for the library.

Hermione found herself releasing a sigh of relief once he'd left.

"Wow," said Luna, something between an amused smile and amazement on her face. "So… you say you've been getting along better, lately?"

Hermione could only let out a pained laugh.

"Mostly," she said.

"And, um, today?" prompted Luna.

"Yes, well, _today…,_" started Hermione, and then she passed a hand across her eyes and drew a breath. "Well, you'll have to understand this didn't just come out of nowhere, it's kind of been growing for some time, and I don't know why, really, and I don't think he does either, but-."

"You like each other romantically, yes, I know," said Luna.

"Wait, what?" asked Hermione, shocked that anyone could suspect such a thing, ever, let alone know it. It was especially jarring to hear it voiced by someone other than herself or Lucius, and even moreso when said so directly, so plainly, so very matter-of-factly. It made it all come clear to her in crisp, unforgiving bas-relief. She and Lucius Malfoy harbored romantic feelings for each other. They both did. Mutually. Oh, cripes. She was clearly a _complete idiot._

"It's been obvious for a while," said Luna, as if it wasn't a big deal.

"Why didn't you slap some sense into me?" asked Hermione desperately.

"Could I have?" asked Luna.

"What is wrong with me?" begged Hermione, looking for answers.

"Nothing," returned Luna.

"We both know who this is!" cried Hermione.

"Yes, we do," said Luna.

"And we know what he's done!"

"Quite," replied Luna.

"How can you be so calm?" asked Hermione, anguished.

Luna drew a breath and let it out, considering her reply. Then, she took Hermione gently by the arm and spoke.

"First, with age comes the understanding of nuance. We are nearly as old as Mr. Malfoy was during the war. I have my own family, my own children. How far would I go to protect them? Probably not that far, not like Mr. Malfoy, but I can begin to understand his motives, at least more than I could at seventeen."

"Secondly," said Luna, "he isn't all bad. He isn't all bad at all. Sometimes he even seems… penitent."

"Or manipulative," said Hermione.

"Well, I think he will always be that," said Luna. "Isn't it in his bones? But, there's something different about him, isn't there? Perhaps it was Azkaban, or the solitary time after the war being a prisoner in his own home… or perhaps even this experience we've had with him has changed him irrevocably. Perhaps even you have changed him, Hermione… or maybe it was all of it, everything."

Hermione sighed restlessly.

"I don't want him to go back," Hermione blurted out at last, anxiety rippling through her voice in a way she didn't like. She hid her face in her hands.

She felt Luna's hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, Hermione," said Luna gently.

Hermione braved meeting Luna's eyes, and was fortunate enough to receive not the shame she felt she deserved, but a comforting hug, one which she took with relief. After the hug was finished, Hermione wanted to tell Luna everything, and so she did.

Luna appeared amazed over the whole thing.

"Interesting," said Luna. "That is _incredibly_ interesting."

"It sounds like you're not saying it's interesting just for sensational value," said Hermione.

"Well, it is certainly interesting that way, too," said Luna, laughing. "_Quel scandale! _But, otherwise, if you think about it, it's as if the house has identified you as an extension of itself as a protection of the Malfoy family."

"Oh, mercy, no!" laughed Hermione. "Not this house again!"

"At least you can add to your resume that you've come to terms with a house," said Luna.

"An unusual addition, to be sure!"

"It must be a lonely job, protecting a family alone for centuries," mused Luna, glancing about at the manor's insides.

"You think houses get lonely?" asked Hermione with a sharp laugh.

Luna just smiled, becoming her familiar dreamy, inexplicable self.

"Mrs. Longbottom, do you suppose you might take a look at Draco tomorrow afternoon?" asked Lucius from the doorway, where he had been lurking, just like Hermione earlier, for who-knows-how-long. Hermione found herself mentally recounting all she had said that could have possibly been overheard to calculate if she'd said anything incriminating, but all that thinking jammed to a halt as her eyes met with his.

What was it about him, now? Why did she want to drop everything and fall into the bottomless pit of his gaze every time he looked at her? What had happened to her? She broke eye contact as an act of self-preservation.

"I'd be happy to, Mr. Malfoy," replied Luna. "Do you plan on fetching him tomorrow?"

"If all goes well, yes," he said. "And perhaps Miss Granger would like to join me?"

"Of course," said Hermione, feeling weird about how polite everyone was being just then.

"It seems like we're getting closer to working this whole thing out, doesn't it?" asked Luna with a smile.

"Yes, I think so," replied Lucius, encroaching further into the room, and Hermione could simply _feel_ his closer presence, as if she'd become instantly in tune with and aware of the unique frequency of his matter. It was as if the rhythm at which his electrons oscillated around his nuclei beat a cadence which her own electrons were simply _dying _to dance to, and with, and around, and never be parted. She resisted his subatomic orbital magnetism as well as she could, due to overall absurdity.

"Yes, soon Mr. Malfoy will be gone, and none of this will have ever happened… isn't it wonderful?" she blurted out, unable to completely suppress a certain tenseness in her voice.

Luna and Lucius seemed not to know how to respond to that, and Hermione was suddenly short of breath.

"Excuse me," she said, turning away and exiting the scene.

Within the privacy of the hallway, Hermione inner-monologued.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid," she said, variety eluding her.

It was time to take a walk about the manor.

It was time for Hermione to spend some time, mono e mono, with Malfoy Manor, and so she took to wandering it, considering its hidden corners and shadowed alcoves, its forgotten busts and weighty fabrics, and its ancient, massive, faded oriental rugs. Hanging heavy in every hall were Malfoy portraits, and most were so dignified, so controlled, that they'd hardly move, except their eyes, which watched her with bated breath. Was she to save them all somehow? How did it come to this?

In the midst of a hallway she found an inset bench which sat opposite a large window, framed by rich curtains, overlooking the tangled rose bed outside. On this little alcove bench was a faded pallet of sage green which might have once been a richer, more Slytherin color, and she took it in and placed herself upon it to gaze out of the window at the silent, wild rose branches.

A deep sigh escaped her.

She touched the inner wall of the alcove, pressing the palm of her hand against it, wondering if she tried hard enough, if she somehow acquired some special Luna-powers, she would know what this house was thinking. That somehow, she'd be able to actually communicate with the thing and know what exactly she was supposed to do. If only Malfoy Manor could spit out a to-do list, that would make everything so much easier. Why must things of such importance be solved using little more than intuition?

The house, of course, said nothing to her through her hand. It merely sat, silent, waiting, patient, knowing, and so she also sat, silent, impatient, frustrated and lost, watching a tiny red bud that had secretly emerged from the tangled rose bushes.


	23. Revelations

_**A/N: Yuck, I haven't updated in too long. I actually have a "good" explanation behind the non-updating thing. I started writing this fanfiction in order to jumpstart my creativity from a long period of inactivity, and it really worked. However, once my creativity got jumpstarted, I started working again on a previous work which was (and still is) unfinished, and I was finally able to continue working on that at a steady pace. Unfortunately, I get so absorbed by creative work that I am only able to work on one "world" at a time, and so this got put aside. I have, however, been wanting to pick it back up, however I can only work on it when I know it won't compromise my work on my other project, which is kind of sacrosanct. I've been considering scheduling time to finish this fanfiction, since the ending is planned and ready to go once I make the time to complete it. I don't know yet how I will manage doing this, but I am actively working on a plan. You can be happy, at least, to know that I am one of those people who has to finish things. Not finishing things drives me up the wall. So this will be finished, it is only a matter of when. Thanks for reading, and enjoy the new chapter. Much love! **_

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: REVELATIONS

She felt an intense desire to avoid seeing Lucius again for the time being, so she assumed the best way to do that would be to leave the Manor and find work to do elsewhere. That elsewhere was, at first, her flat to check for messages. There were, indeed, some messages waiting for her at home.

_Dear Hermione, _

_I meant to congratulate you on how effectively you and Mr. Malfoy have managed the construction of the distantly related Mr. Malfoi. The wizarding world seems to be uniformly in love with Jacques, and with the idea that so are you. You've perhaps fooled me, too, into believing it to be so. _

_I'm writing to let you know there's been some digging being done on the origin of Mr. Malfoi in the Ministry Archives. I strongly believe this has been ordered by the Minister himself. Be careful. _

(A few lines were scratched out with rough scratches of ink)

_If you need me, send for me. _

_Thomas. _

Hermione sighed at the letter, and then let out a frustrated groan and threw the letter down on a side-table. It was clear that Thomas was hurt. She'd hurt him. She didn't want to hurt anyone, yet she'd manipulated him and now he knew it and she knew it and yet he was still desperate to help her. It made her sick. Literally. How could Lucius live with himself when he did this sort of thing? Hermione wanted to crawl out of her skin.

She thought about how, if they were successful with Lucius and the Manor, that none of this would have happened. In this case, she was quite pleased about the idea of this part of events never happening. It even relieved her, in a sense. She eyed her desk in the corner, considering writing him a letter, one that explained everything and let him down easy and apologized and so on and so forth.

But she didn't.

She would wait and see. Perhaps there was no need for it. Perhaps it would all disappear from existence. She recoiled inside at the stirrings of newfound cynicism and detachment within her. How easy it was not to care when one assumed that eventually it wouldn't matter. She didn't like that feeling, for it felt like a slow-moving poison in her body.

Next letter.

_Hermione, _

_I had a talk with Harry. I hate the Malfoys as much as Harry, but this is all beside the real problem. Don't worry, you're safe with us. I have access to some information you probably want._

_Meet at Hogsmeade for lunch? _

_Ron_

Well, she hadn't heard from Ron in a few years, at least. Despite the fact that they'd realized early on that there wasn't much at all to their prospective romantic entanglement, there was something about him that brought her comfort, even in a few words penned on a page. Something about him made her feel safe and loved. Was it the family he came from? The stability that seemed to always surround him? She wondered, for at least the twentieth time, if she'd made a mistake all those years ago by not finding out if they would have worked or not.

Too late for that, Ron had married a Swedish witch with expertise in trolls. They fit quite well. Better than she and Ron ever would have.

_Dear Ron,_

_I'll be there. _

_Thanks. _

-oOo—

The Three Broomsticks was just like she remembered it: welcoming, comfortable, and snug in the village of Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade itself seemed as if it were displaced out of time, untouched by change, sitting somehow outside of the time-stream in which Hermione lived her life. Within sat Ron at a table, looking more like a wizard than any of the rest of them had managed yet, and she chalked that up to him being the Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts for almost fifteen years. Hogwarts was a traditional place, now that she thought on it.

He stood as soon as he saw her, and gave her a big, sturdy hug.

"Hermione!"

She had to laugh at his kindness.

"Ron, how are you?" she smiled. "Nice beard."

It was getting quite long. Wizardly, indeed.

"Well, you know," he said. "It's the thing to do."

It was.

"How are the children?"

"Growing madly," he said. "My oldest is coming into Hogwarts next year."

"I can't believe it!" cried Hermione, punching down feelings of completely wasting her life.

"I'll have to find someone else to teach her Muggle Studies," he said. "Can't have favoritism, you know."

"Yes, of course," she said, "Nothing like that _ever_ happens at Hogwarts."

And they shared a Very. Hearty. Laugh.

There was more small talk, things that were important but not, but Hermione did care, because this was _Ron_, after all. After they'd finished being impressed with each other's lives (she with his curated career professor-ing at Hogwarts, he with her adventurous career in ancient book recovery, though neither would have switched with the other), they went on with the real business at hand.

"I don't mind if all the Malfoys disappear from the face of the world, but I'm not keen at all on a Minister who would do what he did," said Ron. "Do you think he was the one behind Mrs. Malfoy's murder?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "It doesn't add up, him murdering her. We're trying to sort all that out right now, and… I think our best bet for finding out is being able to access Draco's memories."

"Right, about that," said Ron, and he pulled a humongous book out of his satchel, somehow, with much heaving (as it was extra-heavy) and lugged it onto the tabletop between them with a thump. It was at least six inches thick, and Hermione knew that added up to a lot of pages.

"What is that?" asked Hermione, feeling impressed due to being in the presence of such a big book, and that Ron had brought it for her, whatever it was.

"This is for you," said Ron. "To borrow. Don't spill anything on it."

Hermione chuckled.

"Sure, I won't," she said, dragging it across the table to look at the worn cover. _Encyclopaedia Protectionis. _

"It has everything, everything there is to know, that anybody knows, about wards," said Ron. "Of any kind."

Hermione gaped at it, and then she made a tiny squeaking noise.

"At least," added Ron, "We think so. And by 'we', I mean 'Hogwarts'."

Hermione squeaked again.

"But it came from the restricted section so I'll need it back," warned Ron. "In one piece."

"Oh, Ron!" cried Hermione. "Thank you!"

"Do you think it'll help?" he asked, so guileless.

"It very well could," said Hermione, casting a spell on the tome, shrinking it to a manageable size. She pocketed it like a precious pearl and couldn't help but beam at Ron. "Thank you, Ron, so much."

"Sure," he said, shrugging. "This is important."

"I guess it is," she said.

"You know," he said. "If you need anything else, you just need to ask."

"The same goes for you," replied Hermione with a smile.

"Also," he added, "Lucius Malfoy is a really, really, _really_ bad choice."

Hermione choked.

"You know that, don't you?" he asked.

"How could I not?" she replied. "He's awful!"

Ron gave her a sideways look, under which Hermione crumbled.

"But also not one-hundred-percent terrible," she admitted, wringing her hands.

He groaned and covered his eyes.

"Stop that, Ron!" seethed Hermione. "It's not what you think! And… it doesn't matter anyway. He's going back to his time if we succeed, and we will succeed."

Ron peeked at her from behind his hand.

"We have to succeed," muttered Hermione as she worried, both desperate to succeed and also to fail.

"This has really done a number on you," said Ron with concern.

"A little," said Hermione.

"Well, it's not right for you to have to manage all this on your own," he said. "At least in the old days it was all three of us."

"I have Luna," said Hermione. "And, well, that Secretary from Recordkeeping…"

It sounded pitiful. Ron smiled.

"Call us if you need us."

"Thank you, Ron."

-oOo—

Hermione spent the evening at home, consuming as much as she could of the massive book, but not before sending a note to Lucius. Why did she feel like she had to tell him where she was and what she was doing? They had clearly reached a new level of mutual stewardship.

_J, _

_Ron gave me some helpful information I'm going to study tonight at home. I'll see you tomorrow and then we'll fetch Draco._

_H_

It was so plain and agonizing. She was trying to keep her focus on one of the drier portions of the book, but she kept wondering if Lucius would reply, and she felt as if she were being stretched and stretched as the hours went on with no reply at all. Of course there would be no reply, there wasn't anything to reply to. It was a simple note with a simple message and what would he write back, anyway? There was nothing to say, obviously.

Still, it would have been nice to have an acknowledgement… or something. _Anything._ As she flipped another page in the endless book, she began to feel a burning, simmering feeling, indignant, resentful, and an inner-rejection of the disappointment she was suffering at the hands of Lucius Malfoy, who couldn't be bothered to write back, or who didn't _care_ to write back, despite their separation of more than half a day! It didn't matter that she was the one who had imposed the separation due to her own whims, but she wanted to hear from him. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to see him, to smell him, to stand close to him and feel the heat that radiated from him. She wanted to align her quantum mechanics with his in a primeval tangle of nuclei.

And then she recoiled and rejected all of those feelings, because it was ruining her effectiveness in a way she found alarming and irritating and _inconvenient_. She flipped another page, perhaps with a bit more force than was necessary.

Where _was _he?

Curse this event horizon! As minutes and hours went by, she stretched and her emotions stretched and her agony stretched, but she was stuck within the firm grip of gravity, and she was never coming out, never until she unlocked the trick to make it all go away; until she found the singularity that would create a new universe, the one that hadn't happened yet, but will have happened once Lucius went back and changed it all and…

Who was she in that other universe that they would make?

She mourned and turned another page. _Oh, Lucius. Curse you. Curse you. How I wish you were here. Maybe I would punch you in the face, but probably not. _

After trying to read the same page five times in a row and failing, she snapped and grabbed a quill.

_Monsieur, _

_What are you doing? Why are you so silent? You're murdering me. _

_Shut up,_

_The Singularity_

She sent it off before she could rethink the complete absurdity of the text, and felt a mild relief from her previous torture, and was even able to focus on several chapters of _Encyclopaedia Protectionis, _some of which were dry as a desert. It was at the point when she was just starting to feel anxiety over what sort of reply she might get from Lucius (if any), and if he might think her crazy and not worth another moment of his time, when there was a quiet, precise knock at her door and she immediately knew who it was.

She opened the door for Lucius, and his eyes cut her to shreds, his scent fell across her like a mantle, and then he was kissing her, taking, taking, and _taking, _mad and selfish and sure and broken and careless.

She tore herself from the kiss and chided him for leaving the door open, and so he slammed it shut in a way the neighbors probably wouldn't appreciate.

But, right then, she really didn't care about the neighbors _at all. _

-oOo—

The morning bloomed in sunrise like a funeral, and in her room laid the unorganized matter that Hermione and Lucius had become. They were static, white with glow in the flush of new light, but unresolved and hanging, suspended in nothing, they were nothing, but it was inevitable that they would soon be forced into a new form. Morning was their first reminder of the inevitable.

Hermione allowed her hair to spread like a mad, dark aurora across a disarray of bedlinen as she regarded Lucius with silent resignation. He slept turned over on his folded arms, stretched and facing down into the white, and his roman hair fell across his temple and he seemed so unlike anything she'd ever seen before. She brushed his hair back, off of his temple, but it was only because she wanted to touch it.

He woke at her touch, a deep inhale possessing him, cognizance seeping through him and up, and out, and he looked at her, taking her in, before a soft smile spread over his face and he fell back into his previous pose.

"Good morning," he said, mild, perhaps tired.

Hermione resumed brushing her fingers through his hair, and silence overtook them both. After some time, she broke the silence.

"Is this happiness?" she asked.

"No," he replied, soft. "This is desperation."

She bent over and kissed his temple, perhaps in desperate resignation, and he received her, and they melded together into a singular embrace.

"Are you married?" she asked, running her hand through his hair.

"That depends on time," he said.

"Do you think of yourself as married?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, after a moment.

"Despite displacement?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm not from here, it's as if I've come on a journey to another place, and I will return when I'm done. Just because my wife isn't here doesn't mean I'm not married anymore."

"Adulterer," she accused.

"I am guilty," he relented with a kiss to her neck.

"So am I," she sighed. "But not of adultery."

He drew back enough to look upon her, his eyes a delicate blue in the pale light. "Then of what?" he asked.

"Of wanting to fail," she said, running her fingertips across his fine-grain face. "Because I want you for my own. I want you for me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Oh, I'm an idiot."

And then she turned and stuffed her face into a jumble of sheet, but he followed her and she felt his forehead and his sigh against her back, and his hand on her waist.

"Shall we throw it all away and rule the world, instead?" he whispered.

Hermione's laugh was weak.

"Don't be stupid, Lucius," she said. "Don't indulge me like that. I know you would never resign Draco to this life, not if you can possibly do anything about it. Besides… I don't think your house would allow it."

His arm stretched around her waist and he pulled her back into him.

"Sometimes it is nice to pretend," he said, and then, "I would marry you, you know."

"Oh," she laughed. "Would you, then? I suppose I don't get a say in the matter?"

"You'd marry me in a heartbeat," he said.

Hermione laughed again and elbowed Lucius, breaking their embrace.

"How sure you are of yourself," she said, pushing him down onto his back and leaning over him. He went easily.

"Let's just say I'm fairly decent at reading cues," he said dryly.

She smiled down at him and shivered, recalling the radiation of the night before, the heat, the bending and curving and slowing and willing of spacetime, the colliding, annihilating, ripping apart of matter, and the energy torn from it, released in an eclipse, a radiant shout, a blinding rupture launched into the black of nothing with existential insistence and despair.

He saw it on her face and pulled her down for a kiss.

"I wonder," he said, "What it would take to convince the other you to marry me?"

"It wouldn't be easy," she replied.

"It wouldn't be _you_, either," he said, a certain sadness in his eyes.

She caressed his face.

"I'll miss you," he said, quiet, and she felt as if something inside of her start to buckle under pressure, a tiny fracture at a breaking point. "Very much."

His voice was so sweet and bare and sad and without guile that she found tears in her eyes before she'd known they could come. She fought to drive them back and he dragged her into his embrace, the embrace that was only temporary but that she wanted to hang, suspended, always.

"Happiness has passed us by," she said. "And we'll never get it back."

"Now you're just being depressing," he said, and she found herself laughing, because maybe she had become a tad melodramatic.

"Oh!" she said, pulling back. "I want to show you something!"

She dragged herself with awkward morning-time ineptitude from the bed, taking her part of the bedclothes with her, leaving enough for modesty for him (because, for some reason, they both needed their modesty still), and fumbled into her bag for her wand and the tiny, then huge, book of _Encyclopaedia Protectionis. _Flopping back on the bed with the weight of it on her lap, she showed it to Lucius, who took immediate, if somewhat amused, interest.

"That's a big book," he said.

"Ron loaned it to me yesterday from Hogwarts," she said. "It has everything about wards in it that anyone can know!"

"Really?" he asked, testing open the cover and running his fingers across the pages. "It's ridiculously large, almost a parody of a book! How long would it take to read such a thing?"

"Um," she said.

"Have you already read it?" he asked in disbelief.

"No, no, of course not!"

Awkward silence.

"Most of it, yes."

Lucius laughed.

"Well, I had to do something while you were ignoring me yesterday," she said in her defense.

Lucius just gave her a flat look.

"Fine, maybe I was ignoring you a little," she admitted. "But I had to."

"Why?"

"Because I knew this would happen," she said, glancing around to indicate what had happened.

"There are worse things that can happen," he said.

"I know," she said, pulling the book close in her arms. "But, now look at what a mess we've made of things."

"Tell me," he said, and she wasn't sure if he was indulging her, patronizing her, truly interested, or some combination of all three. Probably all three. Still, something in her didn't want to let it go. She didn't want to explain to him the mess this was, and why it was a mess, because that would require unfurling the clenched fist of feelings she kept restrained and would keep restrained for her own protection.

So instead of telling him whatever it was he wanted her to tell him, she got up and started to make for the nearest shower. She heard him fall back on the bed, the soft sound of fabric and matter being shifted by falling mass released at last to the incessant pull of gravity.

"Fine," he said, quietly enough so she couldn't be sure that was what he said, but, whatever it was, it was the last thing she would ever hear him say in her flat.

-oOo-

_**Thanks for reading! I hope to have another chapter up soon! **_


	24. Draco Lucius Malfoy

_**A/N: Joy of joys, I love the feeling of finishing another chapter! Please forgive any inconsistencies, I'm trying to piece all the threads together as seamlessly as possible. Thanks for reading :)**_

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY

She took her time showering even though she expected him to be gone when she came back regardless of how long she took, because she wanted to make extra-sure he was gone when she returned. It worked; he wasn't there when she walked into her room, and strangely enough he'd _made the bed very neatly_, and he'd left on top of the creaseless bedcover _Encyclopaediea Protectionis_ and a note which read:

_See you at the manor. _

She heaved a deep sigh. The note smelled like him and she flung it away as she caught herself sniffing it like a lovesick Juliet.

Yes, she will see him at the manor, and they will abandon all of this foolishness and get straight to the point of things. They'd get straight to what was really _important_ here, and they were going to _fix it, _by Merlin. Combined, she and Lucius were _formidable._ Between their respective intelligences and talents they could do anything_. _Today was the day Jacques Malfoi was going to rescue Draco Malfoy from the asylum and she was going to be there beside him when he did.

Once again she found herself within the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, but today she was surrounded by budding green of spring and the rays of a very accommodating sun. The grounds were disorderly but pleasant as things were in the mode of springing to life all around her, and, sitting quiet beyond, the manor itself waited for her, seemed to welcome her and, in fact, the door creaked open as she arrived on the doorstep, whether by a burst of air pressure, wind, or magic, she knew not. She entered like a friend to the thing which surrounded her.

"Lucius?" she asked, turning around the doorway to Lucius' office, and finding the object of her search sitting neatly at his desk, perfect in every way, his hands occupied with a quill and papers, his pale roman hair falling across his temple, his sleeve cut and pressed to the cross of his wrist, his countenance docile with the promise of dormant power.

He didn't smile, exactly, but his face showed he welcomed her presence, despite the circumstances.

"Hermione," he said, and she wished he'd always say it like that.

"Are you ready to get Draco?" she asked.

"Right," he said, rising, and gathering himself. "_Mais oui," _he amended.

Hermione smiled.

-oOo—

"Father, you've come back for me," said Draco, his blithe face blank as a basket of wool in the white-scrubbed surroundings of St. Mungo's Psychiatric Ward.

"_Cher __gar__çon_, I am not your father," said Jacques Malfoi, signing the papers for Draco's release.

"Of course you are," replied Draco.

"He is your second cousin, twice removed," informed Hermione, casting a smile at the bored attendant behind the desk. The bored attendant didn't seem to care what relation the two Malfoys shared, as long as it was legal. "From France."

"I learned French," said Draco, looking misty.

"_Ah, oui?" _inquired Jacques in a way that meant he wasn't really listening, as he was reading over the papers.

"_Mais oui, mon p__ére._"

"_Je ne suis pas ton p__ére," _insisted Jacques.

Frappy the ghost appeared, or perhaps he had always been there, but he became relevant due to the

way he was eyeing Jacques very critically.

"You're going to fix him, aren't you," said Frappy, and it wasn't a question, despite grammatical choices.

Jacques didn't deign acknowledge Frappy's existence.

"We hope," said Hermione.

"He's more fun un-fixed," said Frappy.

"Did you know him before?" asked Hermione.

"No," said Frappy.

"Then how should you know if he's more fun now?" asked Hermione.

"_Was_ he fun before?" asked Frappy.

"Well," said Hermione, considering the teenaged Draco. She had to make the admission: "No, not at all."

"See!?" yelled Frappy, pointing at Hermione like he knew everything all along.

"But he could have been!" objected Hermione.

"No," said Frappy. "I know people, lady. He's not the fun type. Not when he's sane, anyway."

The ghost cast a doleful, yet meaningful glance at Jacques, who continued to pretend the ghost did not exist. Jacques handed the signed papers back to the attendant.

"Zere," said Jacques in a final way. The attendant looked over the papers and stamped them with an overlarge stamp that said:

-RELEASED-

ST. MUNGO

… in red ink.

"Have a nice day," said the attendant without meaning it, and he turned to file the papers away.

Hermione shared a glance with Jacques, and felt relief when she saw the same on his face.

"Take care of him," said Frappy, who had begun to float back against the wall and looked a little resigned.

"You're not coming?" asked Draco.

"You won't need me anymore," said the ghost.

"Of course I will!" said Draco.

"No, you won't," said Frappy, and Hermione started to wonder about the ghost.

"What are you implying?" asked Hermione.

Frappy just gave Hermione a smile that appeared kind of sad, but she wasn't sure if that's just how ghosts smile.

"Do you know something?" she asked, feeling prompted to approach the ghost. "Something that can help us?"

She felt Jacques hand grip her arm, hard, and he meant for her to stop and put a lid on it in front of _people. _

Frappy shrugged and said, "Enh. Just get him home. You'll see."

"Frappy!" cried Draco.

"Go home, kid," said Frappy, and he disappeared in a puff.

"Frappy!" repeated Draco.

Hermione put her arm around a mourning Draco as Jacques led them all to the front doors of the hospital.

"Well, at least _that's _over," said Hermione, as Jacques opened the doors to reveal a cacophony of flashing lights and reporters, each with a face and voice that screamed anxiety and the desperate desire to _know everything about Jacques Malfoi._

"Ack, where did this all come from?" is what Hermione said, but was impossible to hear above the din and fray, which is probably a good thing, considering the lameness of her exclamation.

_"What will you do with Draco now that he's been released?" _

_"Who owns Malfoy Manor, you or Draco?"_

_"Is it true you have no plans to go back to France?" _

_"Are you going to marry Miss Granger?" _

_"Is Draco going to marry Miss Granger?" _

Hermione wondered why her value was reduced to merely who she was going to marry. Didn't anyone care about _her _plans? The ones that didn't include marriage, that is. Not that she had any marriage plans. She'd spent her whole life pursuing the acquirement of knowledge and for the benefit of shared research and all anyone cared about, when it came to Hermione Granger, was _which Malfoy she would marry_. It stung a little. It stung a lot.

_"Pardon moi,_" said Jacques gracefully, "I believe you are scaring Draco, who needs to recover at home. If you will indulge us, I will be happy to entertain your inquiries at the manor_ demain_."

With that he forced his way with as much dignity and grace as Hermione could imagine a person could force their way through a crowd of reporters with both herself and Draco intact. Once they were out of the chaff, he gripped them both by the wrists and muttered:

_"Allons-y."_

They disappeared and moved, and shifted, and hurtled, and landed outside of the manor near the hidden door in the fields.

"There's a lot of sun today," remarked Draco in wonder, despite Frappy-separation tears still wet on his face.

Hermione had to admit he was right. The sun was everywhere. Lucius seemed overly occupied with opening the door and getting inside with Draco, and didn't seem to notice the sun at all.

"Lucius, are you in a hurry?" asked Hermione, following along inside, and having to increase her step to keep up.

"Yes," said Lucius. "Is Luna here?"

"She should be," replied Hermione.

"Let's get to the dining hall," he said.

"But what-," began Hermione, cut off as Lucius shoved his way through another door and began to ascend the steps, his hand gripping Draco by the arm.

"Ow," said Draco.

"Hurry up," said Lucius. "I don't think we have much time."

"What?" asked Hermione, and then: "Why?"

Climbing the stairs strangely fast, they all became out of breath to varying degrees, Draco most of all, as he'd had little exercise in the hospital.

"Did you get a good look at that crowd outside the hospital, Hermione?" asked Lucius.

"There… were a lot of flashing lights and a lot of yelling," replied Hermione as an explanation of why she didn't notice every detail of the crowd outside the hospital.

"Mmn," said Lucius. "And not just reporters."

"Who?" asked Hermione, but they'd arrived in the dining hall, and Luna was there.

"Hermione! Lucius!" said Luna, moving towards them, but then she stopped to gaze at the man being held up by Lucius. "And… Draco?"

Draco crumpled to the floor of the dining hall.

"Draco!" cried Lucius, kneeling beside his son.

A low buzz began, inaudible but felt at first, and then sound came from what seemed like the walls of the room.

"Luna, what is happening?" asked Hermione, looking to her friend, hoping for explanation.

"Ah," said Luna, who seemed to be guessing. "Energy seems to be building up?"

It wasn't very comforting, nor informative. A white static formed on the walls, shifted, and travelled like electricity across the walls and then the floor towards a central location, and that central location was Draco's crumpled form. It all happened so fast even Lucius hadn't time to take out his wand before the static had collected and entered Draco's body.

The long moment in which they all stood wordlessly and stared at Draco waiting for something to happen might have been funny if taken out of context, but of course it wasn't funny. It definitely wasn't funny. Hermione had brief anxiety strike her over whether or not she'd start panic-laughing, but it was over as fast as it came, because there was a sudden drop in pressure and a boom, and from Draco came the supernova, a darkness, and a blindness, and a circle of light expanding out, and out, and the sudden feeling of release, the cold burst of air in a hot room, and then it was over.

"Draco," said Lucius, hesitant.

Draco groaned and shifted, moving himself up on his hands to look at the room around him. He made a decidedly pained, very _Draco-Malfoyian _face.

"Augh, who let the dining hall get like _this?_" he asked.

Lucius gasped audibly.

"Oh Merlin, Draco!" he cried, pulling his son into a crushing hug, and within the hug he went on: "It's you!"

Yes, it was a definitely little strange seeing Lucius being so overtly emotional, and she knew him well. For Draco it was probably worse. Draco looked over Lucius' shoulder at Hermione with a very confused expression. Hermione smiled at him.

"Hermione Granger? What are you doing here?" Draco inquired, and then with a subtle tinge of disgust which was _not_ lost on Hermione: "And why are you so _old?_"

Hermione stopped smiling.

"Never mind that!" said Lucius, pulling out of the hug and gripping Draco by the shoulders. _So much for chivalry._ "Draco… it is imperative that you tell me right away everything you know from the last night you were in the manor."

Draco's eyes shifted and flickered and he broke eye contact with his father, and his imperious expression crumbled away to a vulnerable place that few had seen. Hermione had to fight the urge to look away, as if this was too private for her to observe.

"Why?" ventured Draco, clearly hesitant to speak of it.

"Because I need to know immediately, and then I need to add wards to the manor. Also immediately."

"Lucius," said Hermione, needing more information.

"They're onto us, Hermione," he said gravely.

"How should you know that?" she asked.

"I know," he said. "Is there anyone you can call for help?"

She knew he meant Harry Potter.

"Yes," she said. "Now?"

"It's now or never," he said.

"Why are you calling my father by his first name?" asked Draco, looking like there was information he suspected but really wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

Hermione decided she wasn't going to stick around to inform Draco of her dalliance with his father, so she pretended not to hear Draco and busied herself with casting a handful of floo powder into the cold fireplace. A green fire erupted instantly, and she called for Harry.

"What's the matter, Hermione?" asked Harry, with his trademark immediate intuition.

"I need you at the manor, Harry," she said, and then cast a glance at Lucius, who returned her glance with a grave one, a glance that stunk of steely determination and a certain fatalism and she didn't like it at all, not one bit, but she turned back to Harry's green floo-head and went on: "I think… I think it's going to get nasty. Get Ron. Be ready to fight."

Harry exhaled, absorbing the fact that, yes, this was happening now, and merely replied, "Right."

"We're going to go put up as many wards as we can," said Hermione. "Before… before they get here."

Whoever "they" are. Oh, crap, she hated that this was happening.

"Draco…"

Hermione turned at the sound of Lucius' voice, her communication with Harry over for now, and saw Draco looking askance at _her_.

"We can trust both Hermione and Luna," said Lucius to his son. "But you need to tell us now. What happened?"

"Are you even my _father_?" asked Draco, who looked like he suddenly suspected the use of Polyjuice potion and this was all a big, elaborate Harry-Potter-esque Gryffindor scheme meant to ruin the Malfoys once and for all… if only he had known the Malfoys had already been long since ruined.

"Of course I'm your father!" spat Lucius, in a perfect Lucius way that certainly could not have been mimicked by anyone who was merely posing as Lucius. Draco consequently flinched as was his wont when his father began to lose his sempre cool.

"Then please tell me what is happening," said, or muttered, Draco, his gaze falling to the floor.

Lucius drew a deep breath and then let it out all at once: "The year is 2015. I was time-travelled by our manor two weeks before your mother's death to this time in order to, we believe, uncover what happened to her and to you. You have been in St. Mungo's Asylum all this time, completely mad. The manor fell into disrepair as no one claimed it. Miss Granger and Mrs. Longbottom initially came to pilfer our rare magical books-,"

"Hey!" objected Hermione, but Lucius went on as if he didn't notice.

"-but discovered me instead. We believe the manor has orchestrated all of this, including the repressing of your memories until now, for the correct time to bring them to light."

"You married Longbottom?" asked Draco of Luna, who just grinned.

Draco then looked at Hermione.

"I really didn't expect you not to marry," he said.

"What did you expect?" asked Hermione, not sure how to take that.

"I thought Potter would come to his senses and notice you."

That just felt awkward.

"What? Harry? How silly and ridiculous!" said Hermione, trying to make it sound as if she hadn't ruminated on the same thing once or twice. "I don't know why anyone would ever think that, that's just silly. And completely ridiculous!"

Draco's gaze went flat and he said, "Oh, right. Now I remember how annoying you were."

Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Now I remember why I always wanted to punch you in the face," she said.

Lucius put his hands on both of their shoulders.

"Let us refrain, for the time being, from reverting into teenagers and focus ourselves," he said… condescendingly.

This whole addition of Draco in the mix really messed things up, but Hermione let it rest.

"Now Draco, please tell us what you remember," said Lucius.

"I don't want to say anything in front of her," said Draco.

"You can trust her," said Lucius.

"Ha!" said Draco, and then: "Ha, ha!"

Lucius looked like he was losing his patience.

"What spell has she cast on you, father?" asked Draco. "You know who this is, don't you?"

"Hermione By-Merlin Granger, yes," said Lucius.

Hermione kind of liked that nickname.

"Do you really want her in our business?" asked Draco.

"I'm here, too," added Luna dreamily.

Draco looked at Luna for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder and said, "Enh."

Clearly Luna wasn't a threat in Draco's estimation.

"Draco," said Lucius, quite serious. "You can trust Hermione with your life."

Draco stared at his father.

"You mean 'Miss Granger', don't you?" he asked Lucius with a scarcely-hidden subtext question lurking behind it.

Lucius gave him _that look_. It was the look that said, "I am your father and you will obey, or else it'll be the cane for you," or whatever it was Lucius used in the past to threaten his only son and heir.

Draco appeared as if for-everything-and-all he really didn't want to spill the beans in front of Hermione "By-Merlin" Granger, and his gaze plead as much with his father for a moment, and, upon failure, he cast a doleful glance upon Hermione, drew a breath, and returned himself solely to his father's focus.

"Father," he said, hesitating. And then: "You know Mother had been acting different than usual, right?"

"I suppose," said Lucius, seeming reserved yet curious where this was headed.

"Colder," said Draco.

"Than normal, that is," he quickly addendum-ed.

Lucius didn't make a sound.

"That night… I think she didn't know I was at home," said Draco. "I had come downstairs and I overheard her talking with someone in the parlor, and I had meant to announce myself when they started talking about _you_."

"Stop," said Lucius, and he grabbed both Draco and Hermione by the wrists.

"What-," Hermione half-objected.

"Luna," said Lucius, "Would you be so kind to cast up as many protective wards, and possibly some traps, as you can while I fish out Draco's memories?"

"Sure," said Luna with a wink.

"Make sure Harry and Ron can get through," added Hermione.

Draco let out an exasperated whimper at the mention of the rest of the Golden Trio.

"And when they get here, maybe they can help you set up some more wards?" suggested Hermione as Lucius all-but dragged her and Draco towards the stairs.

"Right-o," called Luna, disappearing towards the manor entrance.

"Lucius, what are you doing?" asked Hermione.

"The pensieve," he said as they clambered up the stairs to the second floor.

"Ah, yes!" cried Hermione. "Perfect!"

"A pensieve?" asked Draco as they arrived at Lucius' office.

"Lie there," said Lucius, pointing to the uncomfortable green velvet couch. Draco obeyed without objection for once, and Lucius brought the altered pensieve to the side of the couch near Draco's head.

There was a crack in the distance and they all turned to the window at once, as if it would answer the question that was equal among them, though from their perspective there was nothing to see.

Lucius came to himself first, his focus becoming air-tight on Draco and the task at hand.

"Stay still, Draco," he said, turning on the altered pensieve with a whirr and affixing Narcissa's wand to the side of it, towards Draco's prone temple. He began flicking through Draco's memories, back, and back, until he reached the point where they'd been blocked before.

"Hermione," he whispered, gesturing for her to come close.

The scent of Lucius drifted across her as she leaned over his shoulder to see the scene within the pensieve, and then he took hold of her and he _pulled _her, and they both fell headlong into Draco's memory, into the hallway outside the parlor so many nights ago where the teenaged face of a curious Draco Malfoy was dappled with a stripe of light, and into the heady sound of Narcissa's voice and the voice of a man Hermione thought she recognized.

Draco was peering through a crack in the parlor door, completely unaware of Hermione and Lucius coming beside him in his memory to take in what he saw and heard.

As Hermione looked through the door, she felt Lucius' hand take hers. She didn't know if it was for her comfort or for his own, but she welcomed it if only because she didn't know how much longer she'd have the luxury of affection from Lucius Malfoy.

Through the crack, she saw the cold beauty of Narcissa Malfoy, the bearing of a queen in her features, resplendent in perfectly tailored robes of forest green, and she knew Lucius saw her, too. How was she so perfect? Hermione felt all of her imperfections on her shoulders like the weight of a thousand rocks, but Lucius' hand, through some logic Hermione didn't comprehend, testified otherwise.

"Do we yet know where he is?" asked a man's voice, rich and deep, from somewhere out of sight.

"Nothing yet," said Narcissa. "We can't find anything at all, not a trace."

"Well, we know he was in the manor when he disappeared," said the man, whose voice nagged at her because she knew she'd heard it before. Perhaps often. "And we also know he never left the manor."

"Well, he isn't here," said Narcissa, sounding testy. "And he took my wand with him!"

Narcissa didn't sound happy about that at all. In fact, strangely enough, she sounded more upset about her missing wand than her missing husband.

"It sounds to me that he simply obliterated himself," said the man.

Narcissa put her hands on her hips and huffed out a puff of air.

"He's gone, anyway," he added.

She merely stood there, brushing a strand on blonde hair back into place, which prompted the man to add more.

"And if he comes back, we can deal with him," he said.

_Deal with him? _Deal with him how? What –

Her thoughts were interrupted by the man approaching Narcissa and coming into view from behind. He took her hands in his. The way she looked at him... Lucius' hand fell away from Hermione's. It sent chills through Hermione that Draco was seeing this, that Lucius was seeing this, that _she_ was seeing this.

"Don't worry, Narcissa," said the man, "He's gone. We can move forward with the plan."

Narcissa gave the man a petulant look, but then she smiled, and… horrors upon horrors, they kissed passionately, and Hermione couldn't help but wish she could throw a blanket over Draco's eyes so he didn't have to witness it.

"Do you see?" said Lucius' voice, utterly cold.

Hermione turned to Lucius' drained face. He glanced at her and then gave a scarce nod to the parlor. Hermione looked into the parlor and, due to the revolution of the kiss, she could now see the face of the man for whom Narcissa Malfoy betrayed her family.

_It was Kingsley Shacklebolt!_

-oOo-

_**A/N: Dun dun duuuuuunnnnnnnn...**_

_**Although this fanfiction takes second fiddle after my main creative project (the webcomic Lintier), here's another chapter. And hopefully there'll be another one, soon.**_


	25. The One True Slytherin

_**A/N: Woo hoo another chapter! Tying all these strings together has been tricky, as I have to go back and make sure I haven't missed any details. As it is, if there are little inconsistencies, please don't burn me at the stake. I tried. :B**_

_**I love Draco Malfoy. He's such a snark-monster, but a layered snark-monster. Enjoy the chapter! **_

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THE ONE TRUE SLYTHERIN

Hermione wasn't in any state of mind to be cognizant of the gasp which escaped her at the moment she realized Narcissa Malfoy had been having an affair with Kingsley Shacklebolt and that the young Draco had witnessed it all on the night of his madness, but in the moments following, she was pretty sure her gasp was huge.

She could feel Lucius trembling beside her, but whether he shook from rage, betrayal, or a more nuanced stew of emotions she knew not. All of this was then trumped by Narcissa and Kingsley looking to the side, and the sound of more arrivals.

"They're here," said Kingsley, and two men came into the room from the back parlor entrance, dressed in Death Eater robes. Hermione recognized those men.

"Those are the men from the investigation photos!" said Hermione.

Lucius stayed silent. Hermione suspected he couldn't even talk in his current state.

"They didn't have to try to sneak in at all, because Narcissa let them in!" said Hermione, and then she wondered aloud, "But why are they here? They definitely don't look like they're here to kill Narcissa."

"I believe, my dear, our plan is airtight," said Kingsley.

"As airtight as this manor?" asked Narcissa.

"Even more," he said. "You'll soon be free of the burden of even the name of Malfoy. The war is over."

"I certainly don't want to go through that again," said Narcissa.

"I'll make sure you never do," said Kingsley.

"We shall see," she said.

"I should go," he replied, glancing behind him.

"You definitely shouldn't be here," replied Narcissa with something of a smirk.

"I never was," said Kingsley, and he went out the way the two robed men had come.

Narcissa turned to the men in Death Eater robes.

"Right, so this is how it's going to go," she said. "I will be upstairs, and you will be hidden here. Draco should be home soon, and at that time you will make your move. Make sure you use killing curses, we don't want this to get messy. Think efficiency."

Hermione noticed Draco had begun trembling in the same manner as his father.

"I will come down as soon as I hear something, but, of course, I will be too late. I will, however, be able to apprehend you, which will go far towards clearing my name even further. Neither of your identities will ever be revealed, as per Mr. Shacklebolt's orders, and you'll go back to being Aurors as if this never happened."

One of the men shuffled his feet, looking as if maybe this wasn't what he'd signed up for. Narcissa gave him a sharp look that almost made Hermione flinch.

"Do you have a problem with getting rid of another Death Eater?" asked Narcissa.

She was going to "get rid" of Draco?

"He just seems rather young," said the man.

"Who trained you?" demanded Narcissa. "Should I report you to Shacklebolt for retraining? A Death Eater is a Death Eater, now be silent and follow orders."

"Yes, ma'am," said the man.

Narcissa Malfoy was, clearly, made entirely out of ice. Or she was the ultimate Slytherin opportunist. Probably both mixed together. Hermione had to admit that, if one were to cast all morality aside, her plan was logical if her goal was her own ambition. She seemed to be well into the process of completely reinventing herself, and that reinvention required unburdening herself from the name of Malfoy, and any unfortunate Malfoys who happened to be attached to her. The cold logic of Narcissa's reached that conclusion, but the humanity in Hermione wanted to scream at the very idea because it was, for reasons completely un-logical but real, an absolutely horrible thing to do. This was like the opportunism of Lucius dialed up to 11, devoid of all emotion, devoid of all love, devoid of all humanity. What gave Hermione chills up her spine was that she could see the reason behind it and almost understand because, if one didn't care about things or people or anything but furthering one's own ambition, it made sense.

Draco shifted beside Hermione, and she noticed he was pulling out his wand. Hermione swallowed hard. She watched the young Malfoy draw a shattered breath, let it out, pull himself up, straighten his posture. She watched as a faint sheen of sweat appeared on his temple. He looked broken, but determination filled his features and he packed it away, packed it away as his father surely taught him, and he smoothed it all behind a veneer of control. Across him spread the threatening calm of dormant power, and she saw, for the first time, Lucius Malfoy in his son. Once Draco had fully gathered his faculties, he pushed open the door to the parlor and walked in.

"Mother," said Draco, and to his credit, his voice didn't shake at all. He did, however, have his wand out.

It was clear by Narcissa's face she didn't expect to see Draco at this moment.

"Draco," she said, gauging subtly what he might or might-not have heard. "Have you just come home?"

"No," said Draco, still radiating a dangerous calm.

"Oh," said Narcissa, as if calculating what comes next. She seemed to decide to feign normalcy. "Have you eaten? Shall I call an elf to bring you dinner?"

"Are these your friends?" asked Draco, ignoring his mother's question and eyeing the men in Death Eater robes.

"Oh, they were just asking after your father," said Narcissa. "I'll be sending them on their way soon."

"I didn't think you still fraternized with Death Eaters," said Draco, his voice calm.

"They're not Death Eaters," said Narcissa with a little laugh.

"Then why are they wearing that?" asked Draco.

"Because they're-," began Narcissa, then she was cut off by her own inability to come up with a plausible reason.

"We're going to a costume party," said one of the men. Oh, it was just awful. The look on Narcissa's face reflected just how terribly executed the lie was.

"A costume party," Draco dead-panned.

Narcissa held still a few moments as if she were wavering between going with the horrible, horrible lie or changing tactics, and then changing tactics emerged the victor.

Her eyes became blue steel and it seemed to Hermione that Narcissa had no remorse when she said, "Fine. It happens now, then."

"What happens now?" asked Draco.

She glanced at the men behind her and ordered, "Do it."

Lucius made a soft noise.

The men, to their credit, hesitated long enough for Draco to incapacitate one of them with stupefy. As the one fell to the ground, Draco dove behind the nearest lounge with surprising battle-readiness as the other man's disarming spell missed. Hermione supposed all the mess over their years at Hogwarts had trained them all in the art of warfare to an unusual degree, Draco included. She felt like she'd been transported back to a time when things were wilder, when things were dire, or even when things were… well… exciting.

She supposed she had. This was Draco's memory, and it happened long ago.

Draco's and the remaining man's wands flashed in a syncopated give-and-take, while Narcissa screamed orders. Hermione assumed she knew why Draco wouldn't silence Narcissa. It was likely Draco didn't have the heart to turn against his own mother in any way, shape or form, whether she was a heartless ice-queen or not.

"Curse Lucius for taking my wand with him!" raged a frustrated Narcissa. She looked a bit wild as if this, though a thing she reasoned must be done, was, perhaps, unhinging her to a small degree. She grabbed the wand from the hand of the stupefied man and pointed it at the lounge which covered Draco.

"Accio lounge!" she cried, and the lounge shifted and jerked with the noise of heavy wood scraping against a tiled floor, and the flung it against a wall, where it struck, crashing into the framed portraits which hung there, leaving Draco unprotected and alone in the center of the parlor.

"Expelliarmus!" shouted Draco at the man, who was too surprised by the exploding couch to notice, and the man's wand was ripped from his hand and clattered into the corner.

"Mother," said Draco, breathless and cautious, his wand trembling in his hand.

There seemed, however, to be nothing of "mother" in Narcissa as she leveled her wand at Draco.

"Are you a true Slytherin Draco?" she asked.

"Of course I am, Mother," said Draco, seeming put off-guard by the question. "If I weren't Slytherin, what else could I be?"

"Well," she said. "If you are, then you understand why this is what I must do."

Draco's eyes widened as it dawned on him fully what she was about to do, and so, as Narcissa cried out the words, "Avada Kedavra!", Draco also cried out "Protego!" in desperation.

The thing was, protego wasn't supposed to protect against the killing curse, and while Hermione was watching this play out she knew this, while she also knew Draco was still alive, eighteen years in the future. These two knowledges created an odd paradox where, while she felt all of this was a horrible situation overall, her intellect was riveted, because she could only wonder how, how, how did he live?

Of course this pure engagement of Hermione's brain only took a tenth of a second to lock in, and as the killing curse left the wand in Narcissa's hand, and the shield rose in front of Draco, a third magic became apparent. This third source came from the room itself, and Hermione watched with fascination as it filed its way, whitely, down the walls on either side of Draco, and collected into his shield, shimmering and then solidifying into a brilliant mirror.

This house.

Narcissa's curse hit the mirror and bounced with perfect precision back into her, and Hermione could see she knew it was coming, she didn't know how, but it was, and she frantically cried, "Protego!" as well. It wasn't enough for her, though. The killing curse pierced Narcissa's shield and she fell to the floor, dead.

"Mother!" cried Draco, releasing his shield and seeming not to remember that his mother had just tried to kill him. "Mother, no!"

The conscious man in Death Eater robes gasped audibly from the corner, his hand covering his mouth. Hermione assumed he wasn't accustomed to these kind of Slytherinesque dealings, and he didn't seem to have the presence of mind to pick up his wand, which was lying on the floor by his feet.

The house magic dissipated the moment Draco had ended his own, but as Draco ran across the parquet floor to kneel at his dead mother's side, the white tendrils of magic began to seep down the walls again.

"Mother," sobbed Draco, tears streaming, "I didn't mean to kill you, I didn't—…"

It was perhaps too much for Draco to have lost his father and then his mother in such strange ways.

The tendrils of magic reached from the house and surrounded Draco, and he didn't notice through his mourning, and they seeped into him and he stilled and she watched his eyes lose their intensity, relax, and the balm of forgetting came over him. Draco's wand clattered to the floor.

"Draco," said the man, who Hermione now saw was holding a bleeding arm. He must have been caught in the crossfire of exploding parts that was once the chaise lounge Narcissa introduced to the wall. He seemed both ashamed over what had transpired here as well as relieved it was over. "Draco, are… are you alright?"

Draco looked up at the man without guile. House magic shot from the walls and grabbed the man, as well as the man who had been stupefied and pulled them tight, strung up in a web of white magic. The man managed to touch a pin on his cloak before the magic took away his ability to move.

"Shacklebolt…" he said. "It's over. It's a disaster."

"Father?" asked Draco the man, who looked away, pained.

It was at that moment that all of the pieces fell into place for Hermione. She saw and understood the house in an instant, understanding its motives and its reasons and its surplus of patience. Malfoy Manor knew what went on within its walls, and it protected the House of Malfoy, persons. Narcissa was indeed the most Slytherin, the most ambitious, the most cold-heartedly logical of them all, and she had become the greatest threat to the House of Malfoy.

Narcissa knew Kingsley Shacklebolt was to be the next Minister of Magic, and therefore one of the most politically powerful men in wizardom, and that made him the best man to attach herself to in the aftermath of the great war, one which, due to her familial relations, did not reflect well on her or give her the opportunity she sought. In order to outright reinvent herself, however, she had to rid herself of the baggage of the past, and that baggage happened to be Lucius and Draco Malfoy.

In tandem with Shacklebolt (who provided her the means), she would first get rid of Lucius. The manor seemed to be attacked at regular intervals anyway after the war, and, if some persons were to get through the wards and manage to kill Lucius, it wouldn't be a terrible surprise. Then, shortly later, it would be arranged that "Death Eaters" would manage to get in to take Draco out, too, and at that point Narcissa would be taken from the manor by Shacklebolt for safekeeping and her new life would begin. Hermione realized Shacklebolt had been helping Narcissa salvage her reputation by publishing multitudes of Death Eaters turned in by her alone… and Hermione wondered if Narcissa had actually turned in any Death Eaters at all (besides her husband and son, that is).

Narcissa's carefully laid plans began to go awry the night Lucius disappeared, and Hermione began to see the wisdom in the manor. Was it planned by Narcissa and Shacklebolt to kill him that night? Was the muffling spell cast on the manor to prevent Lucius from perceiving gathering Aurors outside? It was possible, perhaps even probable. That was, however, the night the manor chose to take Lucius Malfoy into its own safekeeping and carefully waited for Narcissa to go after Draco. The house, in its wisdom, gave Narcissa every opportunity not to do it, but once she did, it protected Draco with both a reflection of Narcissa's killing curse, but also a mental blindness over what had happened, the inability to recall, the inability to be cogent, and therefore the inability for anyone to consider him a threat and dispose of him until the right time came for Lucius to return and fix it all.

It was clear that there was no way that Draco could have stood up to the power of Shacklebolt and his aurors when it would only have been his word against the rest. No one would believe Draco Malfoy. He would have been consigned to an ostracized, perhaps Azkaban-al fate for the death of his mother, and it was even possible that Shacklebolt would have taken out his anger over Narcissa's death on Draco, had he been sane.

Draco's manor-induced insanity saved him and preserved his memories for the time when the right people were in the right places to save the House of Malfoy. A person might be too impatient to consider waiting seventeen years for the right circumstances, but a house doesn't seem to notice these kinds of things.

As Hermione made these connections in her mind, she realized she was an integral part of the house's process. Was she the first person who had seriously wondered about the strange circumstances of the Malfoy destruction? Or was she the person who was the right person to wonder about these strange circumstances? Was she chosen by the house? It all seemed so random and impossible to happen on purpose that she couldn't wrap her mind around how she'd become embroiled in it all, but she did know that she wouldn't have cared if she'd been brought into the manor a year after, or five years after, or maybe even ten years after. It took seventeen years of fading of past memories to bring Hermione to the place where she could care about the destroyed House of Malfoy, and even then only just. But… in the intervening weeks and days and hours… how she'd become so entrenched in the fate of Malfoy, how she'd come to know the house and respect and revere it, how she had come to grips with the paradigm of being in love with Lucius Malfoy, a state of being that ached cruelly but to which she had resigned herself like a sacrifice for the greater good. She would love Lucius while she could, she would respect Malfoy Manor while she could, and she would set right the House of Malfoy, even if it meant the destruction of this particular universe and the genesis of a new one.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and several aurors rushed into the room to find the dead Narcissa, the strung-up men in Death Eater robes, and Draco, insane and kneeling on the floor. A wash of expressions crossed Kingsley's face as he discovered Narcissa, but most were almost immediately carefully hidden. He looked up to see the man with the arm injury seemed to have fainted from blood loss, and the other one was still out from Draco's stupefy. Hermione had to hand it to Draco, it was an excellent stupefy.

One of the aurors with Kingsley produced a white sheet and laid it over Narcissa as Kingsley turned his attention to Draco. He picked up the wand by Draco's feet.

"Draco," he said. "Is this your wand?"

"Father, is it you?" asked Draco.

Kingsley stepped back in horror.

Hermione felt herself pulled out of the pensieve, backward, out, and out and up to the place where she was standing with Lucius over the pensieve and a prone Draco and lightning struck, lighting the room over and over from the window. Except it wasn't lightning.

There was a breathless moment for all three of them as Draco sat up, and Hermione and Lucius watched the window to see bolts of magic striking wards, shields, and the residue of magic not clear in the window lighting the sky in the distance.

"They're attacking," said Hermione, voicing the thing that everyone knew, obviously.

"Of course," said Draco, "Shacklebolt's reputation is at stake."

"And who knows what other secret dealings are piled upon this particular cover-up," said Lucius, but there was something in his voice that made Hermione turn to him.

She saw the remnants of tears on his face. It must have been too much to see, of course it was too much to see! Oh, she felt sick for him, the betrayal, the horror, the lives ruined, everything he had ever worked for undermined, destroyed… by the person who was supposed to be his one ally in life. Hermione rushed at once to embrace him with all the warmth, safety, and security she could muster. She threw her arms around his shoulders and held him, and he received her like he had been dying for this comfort, perhaps for his entire life.

"We will fix this," she whispered into his ear, meaning it to her bones.

He sighed against her and held her, and said her name, the colors of tone in his voice filling her with joy and sorrow.

"No matter what," she cried softly, and they both knew what that meant and their embrace grew tighter as if… as if that could change their impending fates.

Release. She ran a hand through his hair and gave him something of a lopsided smile. He looked as if he adored her.

"I'm … going to pretend I didn't see any of that," said Draco from nearby, disgusted.

"Get your wands out, both of you," said Lucius, ignoring Draco's aside and easily falling into order and authority. He grabbed his own (Narcissa's) wand from the pensieve.

Hermione and Draco obeyed immediately through habit, or perhaps because Lucius was just that persuasive, and braced themselves for further orders.

"It's time to join the fight," said Lucius.

_**A/N: Thank you for reading so far and thank you to those who have given reviews! They make my day, and really make me inspired to continue (I'll continue regardless because I'm determined to finish this, but reviews make me more bouncy about it). Have a great day! **_


	26. The Singularity

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: THE SINGULARITY

The dark halls of Malfoy Manor were punctured from time to time with flashes of light from passing windows, sometimes green, sometimes purple, sometimes solar white, and the blanket of silence was pricked with the sound of explosions and the rare shout.

Lucius, Hermione, and Draco moved in grim silence through the hall and towards the entrance of the manor, and perhaps it was the case that all three dreaded what was coming next. Upon reaching the ajar front door, Hermione saw the further ruin of the front gardens of Malfoy. What statues still stood before had mostly become rubble, fires burned in small patches, and where fires were not, there were blackened sores marring the once-peaceful grounds.

It didn't help that it was dark outside, but Hermione could see Harry taking cover behind a pile of rock-rubble (once a statue), Luna behind a fountain, and Ron encased in a powerful shield of his own making, forcing Hermione to admit that Ron really did become an exceptional wizard. All around were distant, dark figures, the figures of professionals, of aurors on the side of Shacklebolt, or perhaps aurors with something to hide, pressing into the manor grounds. Those men knew that they were doing, but Harry at the very least did too, and perhaps more so. As for Ron, Luna, Hermione, and Draco, they had been forged in the fires of war in youth, and it might have been the case that they came alive under the circumstances in a way in which they hadn't for at least seventeen years.

"Hermione!" cried Harry, spotting her.

A bolt of magic struck the rubble behind which Harry crouched, and Hermione fell into old habits.

"_Acciund rock!"_ she bellowed, her wand thrust before her, and a large rock lifted from the ground and hurtled into the auror who had been bearing down on Harry.

"What was that?" asked Draco.

"I tweaked it," said Hermione, but with no time for explaining things to Draco Malfoy, she began to bolt across the grounds towards where Luna was ducking behind the remains of a fountain.

"Hermione!" she heard Lucius' voice cry from behind her. _Let him try to stop her. This was what she did best. _

A shock of purple magic arced towards her from the darkness and she deflected it as she ran. Two more jets streamed out and Luna deflected one and the other Hermione ducked.

"_Expelliarmus!" _she yelled, pointing at the most likely trajectory of the recent jet. A wand came with a spinning whistle through the air just past her face. The clattering of the wand in the nearby rubble was followed by a sharp curse.

Hermione tackled the back of the fountain next to Luna like a linebacker. Panting, she looked up at Luna.

"So what are we looking at?" she asked.

"Good Merlin, woman, how can you just run out in the open like that?" chided a breathless Lucius from her other side, who must have followed her without her knowledge.

"What are you doing out here?" demanded Hermione of Lucius, outraged that he would put himself in such extreme danger without conferring with her first.

He leaned one hand on the back of the fountain as he caught his breath and gave her a _look_, that she should be one to talk.

"They've broken through the outer wards," said Luna, immune to the usual contention of Hermione and Lucius. "I've put an especially dense one around the house itself, and we were trying to stall them until the three of you finished."

Hermione glanced around at their out-numbered-ness and came to the most obvious conclusion.

"It's time to fall back!" she called to Harry, who agreed.

"Fall back to the manor!" he called to Ron the wizard extraordinaire, who proceeded to cast out an array of dizzying streams of light for confusion's sake. In the pause of aurors trying to understand the fireworks, they got a head start to the front door. Harry and Ron gave covering fire until they were all inside.

Harry fell back against the barred doors with a thump.

"This is some nasty business you've gotten yourself into, Hermione," said Harry.

"Isn't it always when the Malfoys are involved?" asked Hermione, and they shared a hearty laugh.

Lucius and Draco were dour for some reason.

"How long have we until they can crack your ward, Luna?" asked Ron.

"I don't know," said Luna. "It depends on how good they are."

Everyone looked at Harry.

"I don't know who's out there," he said. "Sure, there are some aurors who are pretty great at breaking wards, but are they here? I have no way to know. It's too dark. This just blew open, you know, this whole mess you found."

"It's just awful, isn't it?" Hermione asked him.

"I told you we'd have to do it our way," said Harry, shifting his eyes to Lucius. "We should have done it earlier, and we'd have had the upper hand."

Lucius met Harry's gaze and replied, "I suppose when all else fails, brute force is last."

Lucius didn't look like he thought very highly of brute force, as if "brute force" was the Gryffindor way or something! How did he twist that around from "charging in, wands blazing"? Well, she supposed they weren't _incredibly_ different, after all. She sighed audibly and impatiently and turned to Luna.

"Where are you headed?" Luna asked her, superseding Hermione before she could talk.

"The dining hall," she said, glancing at Lucius. He seemed to know what she was about, and a soft regret passed across his eyes.

"I'll cast wards to keep them away as long as I can," said Luna.

"Right then," said Harry, pushing up his sleeves as if preparing to do some especially tough work. "Get to where you need to be, Hermione."

Just then the manor shook, like the shivering aftermath of a bomb strike.

"Run!" yelled Luna, and Lucius grabbed Hermione's arm and they ran.

During the running there were a few more shattering blows felt tremblesome throughout the manor, and the sound of Luna casting more and more wards, and Ron and Harry's urgent, coordinating voices growing distant as she, Draco, and Lucius reached the once-grand Malfoy Dining Hall.

It was quiet in the soft ashen darkness of the dining hall, and if Hermione pretended, she could imagine the manor wasn't being attacked at all, and it was just another night at Malfoy Manor, just another hour to discover more about Lucius Malfoy, and about his curious house. The manor shivered under the onslaught of Kingsley Shacklebolt's fear of discovery though, and Hermione couldn't pretend for another moment.

She felt terrible for it, for this house and place of so much time and knowing, besieged by the present wants of men; men of no mind to preserve its quality, of no mind to be aware that there was any quality to preserve in the first place, an ignorant, heedless onslaught that tore down that which could not be replaced. She was gripped all at once with a deep, agonizing sadness and she drew in a shaking breath and turned to Lucius.

He saw it on her face, and for once she was glad for her transparency.

"I love you," he said, as if that was the last time he'd ever be able to say it.

She responded by dragging him down to her by the collar and taking a kiss, one in which she hoped that everything she wanted him to know was communicated through osmosis, somehow. He fell into it, giving himself to her wholeheartedly and though they both knew their minutes, even seconds, were anxiously limited and that they had to get to doing whatever it was that they were supposed to do right now, _right now_, they delayed it like stubborn, headstrong procrastinators, for seconds, seconds, thirds.

Distantly they heard Ron shout and their kiss ended, but slowly, and like backwards melting, they, liquid, once again grew solid.

Draco stood sullen, his eyes on them but his body half-turned, as if he didn't want to see what he'd seen, but in his fascinated horror he could not look away.

"Guard the doorway," Lucius told his son.

Draco turned, wordless, and strode to the door, his wand out, and immediately took a position of defense, watching the hallway.

"I don't understand it," he said, his eyes still on the hall.

"Neither do I," said Lucius simply.

The conversation ended there. Well, that was brief.

"Lucius," said Hermione, touching his arm. She pointed towards the back-center of the dining hall, the place where she'd first seen him appear, crouched, newly brought from seventeen years ago, and the scent of him and old parchment had filled the air, and the lights showed it to be him, Malfoy-blond, masculine, but weak and faltering, a different man from the one she produced tonight. She hoped the offering of Lucius Malfoy, changed, was enough for the sake of the House of Malfoy on every level. Perhaps he had become more than enough, and it was possible that he had become that which he needed to become for the survival of Malfoy, et al.

Lucius moved to the place where she pointed and stood, a different man, his ancient heft diffused by rays of light. She saw it and was glad it would not be forgotten. At least he would remember it all, the one who it had changed the most.

Hermione knelt on one knee and pressed a hand to the fitted stone floor, feeling for what she wasn't altogether sure, but knowing that, if the house were ever to help them, it had to do it now, or it would never get the chance. They were besieged, and there was only one way to win this war; send Lucius back and create another universe, one in which this had never happened, except in Lucius' memories.

She felt, using all the magical discernment with which she had been blessed, inviting the house to urgency, offering herself wholly as protector of the House of Malfoy, determined to protect it with her will and all the strength she possessed. It stirred, or perhaps it ended its patient waiting, because she felt its magic stir beneath her hand and join with hers, a union of mortal and immortal equal cause and determination. Somewhere in the intervening weeks, her motives had slowly aligned themselves with that of Malfoy Manor, and that alignment, once clicked into place, started a clockwork that could only happen at that moment.

Magic swelled from the house into her and as the duality became the singularity, she felt a surge of everything the house knew present in her own intellect. The old, the knowing, the waiting, the seeping stones which formed its foundation laid by the ancient Malfoy, made for defense against a wilder time, the unrecorded struggles for survival against a darkness long forgotten, the beginnings of House Malfoy, respected, the determination of family bonds, the growth in unity, the wealth, the prosperity, the callousing, the forgetting, the House of Malfoy growing old like cracked, dried parchment, and the house feeling the stale air, waiting, waiting, perceiving the end under Narcissa Black and preventing it like a wall that would not be destroyed.

She stood and looked at Lucius Malfoy, delicate, mortal, infinitely precious to the house and to her.

"It's coming," she said.

"Hermione," he said.

She drew a breath and with it she filled herself with house magic, and she let her mortal, witch magic flow into it, and she knew this was what was needed, this was the only way to do it, this was what the house had been waiting for, because it was the only way to send him back, and the only way to save House Malfoy, and the manor itself. From its first stone, however, she knew Malfoy Manor cared not for itself; it was a thing of selfless patience. It was built for one purpose: the preservation of the Malfoy family. It would never lose that purpose for as long as a single rock of its foundation still stood.

She and the house understood each other completely at last.

Dimly she heard Draco shout and she turned in her house-enduced omniscience to see Harry, Luna, and Ron having fallen back to the dining room entrance. The house shuddered, the scent of smoke filled the air, and, distant through the door, was the bright lick of flame. _Don't worry, _she told the house, _I'll save you. _

Luna saw her and gasped.

"Hermione, you've house magic all around you!" cried Luna.

She supposed she did. Harry and the others took up defensive positions and Luna managed to cast a last ward around the dining hall right before curses and blasts from the attacking aurors fell against their defenses.

"Hermione! Get behind something!" cried Ron.

She was standing in the middle of the dining room, seemingly defenseless, after all. It didn't matter, though.

"They can't touch me," she said, and the house gave her power beyond mortal, and lest her charge be harmed, she shot magic in a thick, shimmering shield to either side of her, curving behind like a massive globe, to encase Lucius Malfoy.

At that moment aurors charged into the room, pushing Luna's defense back and back, but were paused by the intensity of Hermione's shield. It seemed as if all stopped in that moment to stare at Hermione Granger, or what Hermione Granger had become, and she could see Kingsley Shacklebolt among them, his face belying his traitorsome past, the cruel slow crushing of decades of duality, the fear of discovery, and the vulnerability of his mortality. She knew him in an instant and the magic around her pulsed, radiating with her heartbeat. She felt as if she'd become a god, knowing she had the power to crush his physical form, but no crushing would match that misery which had been of his own making. It wasn't necessary.

"I am the singularity," she said.

"What the Merlin?" Kingsley Shacklebolt said. He didn't understand, and this Kingsley Shacklebolt never would. This universe was nearly over.

"I am the creator and destroyer of universes," she said. She was.

"Stop her!" cried Kingsley, though she knew he didn't understand what she was and that made him afraid. In his fear he wanted whatever she was doing to stop, but he was too late. The aurors sprang into motion to destroy the last of their defenses, to breach to Hermione and ultimately Lucius, but she knew that even in their professionalism and training and skill, they were hesitant and afraid and held back, if only a little, because of the great unknown.

It was time to send Lucius back, to begin again, and it would be a new beginning, not only of this particular story, but of the House of Malfoy, because with the knowledge and the change within Lucius Malfoy came the fresh air the House had needed, had waited for, for centuries.

Sometimes one has to be brought near extinction to recover one's soul.

She turned to Lucius and he seemed to have stood dumbfounded throughout the ordeal, but she loved him, and she and the house loved him, and it was so deeply that she felt it resonate in her bones and the house felt it in its foundation, the love with which ancient Malfoys, laying stone upon stone, had hoped for the greatness, security, and wisdom of those who would hold its future, and she wished upon him hope for the future that would come in another place, at another time, removed from this place and time.

"Lucius," she said.

"Yes, Hermione?" he replied, soft.

"I am and will always be the Warden of Malfoy."

He fell silent and his gaze lay upon her, and she knew he didn't fully know what that meant, but perhaps someday he would, and he felt gratitude and unworthiness and humility and the heavy burden of the task which rested on his shoulders and a wary hope that he might accomplish what was necessary. His glance flickered towards Draco and she perceived his thoughts in an instant.

"Draco will be fine," she said.

He believed her. She was satisfied.

She shifted to pull the magic around her with pondering heft like the great lifting of a Titan, and it swirled slowly, then faster into a spherical vortex, glowing golden with Lucius at the center. Behind her the pandemonium of aurors and allies slowed and grew silent, and it didn't matter whether they fought or lived or died because this would all be gone, forgotten, given up, released, and this would end, and the House of Malfoy would not end.

There was a silent pulse which thrummed from the center of the sphered vortex, and it repeated, not heard but felt, like an absence of space-time, and it beat again and again, faster and faster, drawing all matter into its center from within its reach of spherical gravity and releasing relentless pulses, breaks in space-time outward, through everyone here and there and everywhere.

Lucius Malfoy and the matter within the sphere folded upon itself, creased, bent, shifted, collapsed into a point of infinite density and without all became the holy dark.

-oOo-

_DAILY PROPHET - MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH, 1998 - EXTRA_

**_YOU-KNOW-WHO TURNS OUT TO BE A LOSER; WAR IS OVER_**

**_GOLDEN TRIO TO BE AWARDED HIGHEST MEDAL OF MERLIN PLATED IN GOLD_**

_It is a glorious day in the wizarding world, not one that has seen the likes since the law was passed to stop burning witches; You-Know-Who is has finally been vanquished at last! Let the celebrations begin! _

_Fortunately, we were saved by the golden trio, Harry Potter and his two friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who were instrumental in tracking down and destroying the horcruxes which kept You-Know-Who alive for so awfully long – _

Hermione put down the paper and stared into space.

"This feels strange," she said, and then she looked at Harry. "Does this feel strange to you?"

"Tell me one part of any of this that isn't strange," he replied, a grin on his face.

He had a point, and she found his grin infectious.

"Hey Hermione," said Ron, with a sandwich. "What's that on the back about the Malfoys?"

"What?" she asked, turning the paper around, searching the back page, and finally finding a tiny article in the corner. Ron and Harry crowded around to read with her.

**_LUCIUS MALFOY AND NARCISSA BLACK MALFOY SPLIT!_**

_According to close sources, the seemingly impenetrable couple Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have separated, and Narcissa is planning a permanent move to France to live with a distant cousin. It is rumored that pending divorce papers have listed "irreconcilable differences" and Lucius will maintain full ownership of Malfoy Manor along with Draco as heir, and Narcissa is making out with very little if any of the Malfoy wealth. One must wonder, what did Narcissa do? Did she really give it all up so easily? Watch this space for more gossip and news! _

That was actually really surprising.

"I'd always assumed Lucius and Narcissa were ironclad," remarked Hermione.

"I guess the war didn't work out for them," said Ron, perhaps gloating due to so many years of persecution.

"Just another casualty," said Harry, not caring. "They're lucky they're not dead or in Azkaban."

"I suppose so," said Hermione, tossing the paper aside and preparing to accept medals of war valour and forgetting all about the Malfoys for a long while.

-oOo-

A few years later, Hermione picked up the paper again (as was her wont) and a small article caught her eye:

**_Lucius Malfoy named top assistant to new Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt_**

Now, that was a very surprising (and extremely disturbing) bit of news about Lucius Malfoy. How in the world did Lucius Malfoy get himself named as the Minister's right hand? He was _Lucius Malfoy_, for crying out loud! Didn't anyone learn anything around the wizarding world? What's next, "Voldemort's remains to be dug up and experimented with"? What did they fight for if Lucius Malfoy can so easily get back into power? Was it all for nothing?

With an angry grumble, she forcefully threw the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ into the rubbish bin and stalked towards her office in the Ministry's Library Sciences Department. She didn't deserve an office at her age and experience, but they just gave her one because she was Hermione By-Merlin Granger. She wasn't about to hand it back since it was free and all and they were offering, and she really did need somewhere to keep all the books she'd been recovering since the fall of the dark side. Some of those things were dangerous and needed to be kept away from the general populace.

Flinging open her office door of wood and frosted glass, she was struck by the scent of old parchment from her recovered books, and something else. Something hard to define. _Autumn… and a thousand memories_. The first she'd expected, but the last two…?

There was a man sitting in her office chair, reading a book, one of her books. He seemed so mild and un-intimidating that it took her at least three seconds to realize it was Lucius Malfoy.

She blinked.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said, chill, a greeting that wasn't a greeting.

He looked up at her, and he did not look like Lucius Malfoy at all. He was, clearly he was, but he wasn't the same. She supposed the most drastic thing was his hair had been cut to look like a Roman. _Like a Roman? Why on earth would I think something like that?_

On closer inspection, the more subtle things were the most different. He looked at her without judgment, with a strange gentleness on his face, even a tinge of sadness. But why? Was this a trick? It must be a trick.

She responded by putting her proverbial shields up.

"Miss Granger," he replied. "I suppose you're wondering why I've invaded your office with my unwelcome presence."

She had to hand it to him, he'd hit the nail on the head right there.

"I am indeed," she replied.

"I wanted to know if you've ever considered pursuing politics," he said.

"Why would I do that?" she asked.

"Because I believe you have an innate talent in leadership and intellect," he replied.

She almost choked. Actually, she kind of did half-choke. It was embarrassing.

"You certainly believe no such thing!" she said.

"But I do," he said, looking so very sincere. He terrified her, he was such a fine actor.

"Don't even begin to say that's the case!" she cried. "You despise me! You find me "lesser"! You think I'm the worst type of thing that can happen to the wizarding world!"

She couldn't believe how quickly he'd brought her to tirade. He looked satisfied by her tirade, as if he'd expected it, or wanted it, or was relieved by it, or all three.

"War changes everyone, doesn't it?" he asked her, an undefined sadness passing across his eyes. Maybe he had been through some things. He certainly looked like he'd been through some things. How much can anything change Lucius Malfoy?

He stood all of a sudden and replaced her book on a desk pile with more care than she would have given.

"Think about it," he said, and he moved past her and through her door. "Good day, Miss Granger."

He was gone, except that scent of autumn and a thousand memories…

She felt a strong sense of déjà vu and denied herself that she was drawn to smell it again.

-oOo-


	27. A Wedding and an Office

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: A WEDDING AND AN OFFICE

It was with no small amount of anxiety that Hermione found herself attending the wedding of Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass at Malfoy Manor the following year. She'd been back and forth about it in her head, over and over, nearly a hundred times. She was fairly certain her obsessive anxieties were eventually going to kill her. Her friends had very little to say about it that she found acceptable.

"I'm pretty sure they invited everyone," a very pregnant Luna had said to her when Hermione was trying to suss out the truth using reason. "And wear the yellow."

She did wear the yellow, because at least she trusted that part of Luna's advice, and as she ported to the pristine gates of Malfoy Manor, she realized that it was a truly beautiful day. Too bad she had to spend it in such a terrible place.

She almost hadn't come. She didn't want to remember darker days, and she still held an intense loathing, _of course_, for all the Malfoys and especially for the awful Manor, for everything that they did to her, or everything they _didn't _do, namely: they didn't stop Bellatrix. It made her sick just thinking about it.

The problem was her curiosity, and though she was loath to admit it even to herself, her curiosity surrounded Lucius Malfoy. There was something strange about him, in what she was afraid was a _very interesting _way. He seemed so ridiculously reformed she felt like she simply had to know what had happened, and if it were true. If it was all a farce she must know. If it wasn't, she also had to know.

He'd only spoken to her a few times since that day in her office, and he was always cordial. Pleasant. But sad. Why was he sad?

In the mean-time he seemed rather tireless about his work at the Ministry, and seemed to have been working to burnish his reputation to as much of a brilliant shine as could be done for a former collaborator with the Lord of Darkness. It was this juxtaposition that she couldn't bring herself to trust. There _had_ to be a catch somewhere.

On top of that she wanted to call herself a complete idiot for devoting so much time to considering whatever it was Lucius Malfoy was up to. Or considering to whatever Lucius Malfoy was up… or considering up whatever to Lucius Malfoy was… oh, she didn't know anymore.

The gates were beautiful, more than she'd imagined they could be. She hadn't seen them since that horrible night, but to avoid any kind of post-trauma stress to emerge, she merely pretended they were some other gates, from a different place and maybe even a different time. They were already open as the wizarding world in finery streamed in to celebrate the marriage of wizarding royalty… like they always did and seemed like they always would.

She was fine, this was fine. It was all going to be _fine._

As she stepped on the path stones, she felt a creeping sense of deja-vu, as if there were something of which to be cautious, as if there were a ward that might harm her, as if the gardens around her were, at some time, or in some time to be, derelict and ruined.

The memory so startled her that disorientation gripped her for a few panicked moments. She leaned on a pristine white column, not derelict at all, and drew a breath.

Oh, dear Merlin, was she developing The Eye now, of all times? Why couldn't it have been during Divinations class when she actually needed it?

Luckily, she didn't have to go into the manor itself since the wedding was being held outside in the lovely springtime grounds. White chairs were set up in rows, servants were busting about, white tulle and flowers were _everywhere. _Though she knew in passing most of the people here, she only knew them in passing. It wasn't enough to sit with anyone or start a conversation that would be anything but painfully awkward. She wished for Luna and took a lonely seat in what she hoped was an incognito place and decided that, on this day, she would observe many things. Maybe she would find out some answers, too.

The ceremony itself was fine. She supposed it was as elaborate as wizarding money could buy; with extra flourishes like synchronized fairy dances and day-time exploding fire-dragons. Draco seemed just as annoying as she remembered, but happy enough to be marrying Astoria, who Hermione really didn't know much about at all. Lucius Malfoy acted normal, like a normal parent of a child getting married. She didn't know what she'd expected to observe, as this was a very predictable sort of occasion. Maybe she needed to start rethinking her methods of observation if she wanted to find out anything interesting.

She did find it very curious that Narcissa wasn't there. Sure, they'd split and all, but she should still come to her son's wedding, shouldn't she? Hermione found that very odd and argued silently with herself whether she should investigate, and if so, how much. Narcissa did leave the country rather quickly, and no one had ever heard from her since… was it possible Mr. Malfoy had her offed? What a terrible thing to think! But… these _were _the Malfoys, after all.

Hermione eyed Mr. Malfoy a little differently after that speculation.

After the ceremony, she was lucky enough to find Luna, who was wearing pastel fluff and standing next to an exceedingly happy Neville. They were probably recalling their own wedding the year before. It _was_ nice. Not as nice as this one, of course, but nice in its own way. She was happy for them, although she didn't have time for that sort of thing. Not _yet_, anyway. Eventually.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" asked Luna.

"Of course," said Hermione. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, she was worried because, you know," said Neville cautiously, "This place might have… bad memories."

"Oh," said Hermione, suddenly reminded of bad memories.

"Sorry," said Neville with a flinch.

"No," said Hermione, "It hasn't been too bad. I might have had a problem if we'd had to go inside."

She and Luna shuddered at the thought.

The reception food was fantastic, she had to hand it to the Malfoys, they knew a good caterer. Or house elves… she glanced around for short service, but didn't see any. She decided to withhold judgment and was dragged by Luna to stand in the stupid reception line to politely congratulate the idiotic ferret and his fairly harmless-looking new wife.

"Did you know that Draco apologized to me personally for everything that happened in Malfoy Manor all those years ago?" Luna asked Hermione.

"Funny, he never apologized to me," said Hermione.

"Maybe he never got around to it," said Luna.

"Ha," said Hermione.

"Maybe he was afraid of you," said Luna belying her innate wisdom.

"Whatever," said Hermione. "Nobody's afraid of me."

"Ha," said Luna, and their turn came with the royal family.

"Congratulations, how lovely you look," said Hermione to Astoria, who accepted graciously.

"Ah, Hermione," said Draco.

"And how lovely you look, too," Hermione assured Draco, giving him her most generous hand-shake and wryest smile. He smirked. She wanted to roll her eyes so very badly but she fought the good fight.

"Thank you for coming," he said blandly. They both deserved Academy Awards.

"Indeed," said Mr. Malfoy, who was next. "I did not expect you to come."

When she looked at Lucius, she found his attention fully engaged upon her and she was suddenly drenched by a bucket of awkwardness. Why should he notice if she should come or not, or care, or take such a personal interest in her attendance? Was he even doing so? Does he say this sort of thing to all the guests?

She glanced aside and said in her defense: "Why should I not come? It is the event of the season, after all."

"I should think the event of the season is the ministry's spring ball," replied Lucius.

Why was he arguing about this? She had just remarked, although perhaps cynically, on his predictable Malfoy supremacy!

"You would prefer the ministry's spring ball to the wedding of your own son?" she asked him incredulously.

He almost-shrugged in the way of the noblesse and said, "Mn, it depends upon who's there, I suppose."

"Father!" an eavesdropping Draco exclaimed.

And then Lucius gave her a secret smile that said he was making a joke and he recognized her intelligence and he was _funny_ and she could only stare in the solar flare of non-comprehension. Oh, she got the _joke_. She just didn't get the vessel from which it sprung.

He held out a hand for her to shake, and she took it.

"We're holding up the line," he said to her.

"Oh no!" she said as she glanced around, embarrassed for holding up the line and also for holding up the line due to talking to Lucius Malfoy, but when she tried to move on she found herself held fast by something: her hand was still in his! She looked back up at him for explanation.

"May I come to your office on Monday morning?" he asked very politely.

"Yes," she said, and then added: "If you must."

She extricated herself from the situation as quickly as possible.

"That was interesting," said Luna, as they walked away, away, so very away. Hermione couldn't get to the gates fast enough.

"That was weird," said Hermione, a little breathless. This whole day had been weird. Malfoy Manor was just weird, period.

"I'm getting a feeling," said Luna.

"Mercy, Luna, don't tell me what it is," said Hermione, stressed.

When she reached the gate it swung out before she could touch it, as if to let her go as she wished.

-ooOOoo—

Monday morning came with dread and suffering. Her sleep had been poor for no reason, really, but no, for many reasons because she was being slowly eaten alive by the curiosity of why Mr. Malfoy wanted to see her this morning in her office. Also she was wondering if he was going to murder her like he probably mostly certainly might have murdered Narcissa Black. She was being decidedly stupid and unprofessional so she went to work on professionalizing herself as much as she could before whenever it was he was going to come calling.

"It's nothing, it's nothing," she muttered to herself, shuffling through books behind her desk, and attempting to occupy herself with something useful, at least.

There was a sudden knock at her door and she yelped and flail-dropped three books before she could stop herself.

Deep breath.

"Come in," she said with serenity, pretending to read something.

"I didn't surprise you, did I?" asked Mr. Malfoy as he stood in the opened doorway. He was wearing smart black robes with blue trim, but the blue made her wonder how often he might wear such a color, with a white shirt under that set off his complexion, and a ring, and… augh, why was she looking at his clothes?

"Yes, no," she said. "No. Of course I expected you, Mr. Malfoy."

"Good morning, Miss Granger."

"Good morning."

"May I have a seat?"

"Please, Mr. Malfoy."

"I suppose you're wondering why I've come," he said.

"It might have crossed my mind," she replied, aloof.

"I'm going to ask you again if you've considered going into politics," he said.

She had, but wasn't about to admit it.

"Why?"

His chair gave a wooden creak as he leaned forward to fold his arms on her desk.

"Because I believe you should," he said.

She found herself pulling away, leaning on her chair, the juxtapose for his aggression.

"That's a rather bold statement coming from Lucius Malfoy towards the person of Hermione Granger," she replied.

He stayed silent, waiting for more.

"Let's say you're right, and I'm excellent at politics, and I become extremely successful at it. Doesn't that go against everything you stand for and care about and so on and so forth? Doesn't my blood status mean I'm inferior regardless of what I do?"

"No," he said.

She slapped the desk and stood, hovering over him.

"Yes, it does! Everything you have ever done has told me that! In fact, I think you _did _tell me almost exactly that in Hogsmeade when you humiliated me years ago!"

He watched her, almost as if he'd been waiting for this.

"Don't pretend like you don't believe it because you do, Lucius Malfoy, and you always will!"

"Don't presume to know what I believe," he said.

"How could I not when you've made it a point to make clear what you believe over and over to me throughout my childhood!"

"We all made mistakes in the war," he said, and she felt a tinge of satisfaction in sensing that she'd touched a nerve.

"Mistakes! Is _that_ what you call 'mistakes'? So all of the lying, the scheming, the cruelty, the _torture_, the murder, it was all 'mistakes'?" she asked, incredulous. "Did you make another 'mistake' when Narcissa disappeared?"

His focus sharpened and he asked, "What are you implying, Miss Granger?"

She leaned in and said, "Funny how she didn't even come to her son's wedding."

Lucius shot up and she became overpoweringly aware of his height in an instant.

"You know nothing of that which you speak," was his careful, threatening, calm response.

Alright, maybe, _maybe_ she miscalculated the whole Lucius-murdering-Narcissa thing. She felt a moment of relief that her desk was between them.

"Then where did she go?" asked Hermione, willing to cede, but only sideways.

"She went where it was reported she went. To France. To live out her days as she will. Without us."

"To never see either of you again?" asked Hermione.

"Trust me, she doesn't mind," said Mr. Malfoy.

"Ha! Trust you!"

"It's a figure of speech!"

"And yet it inspires hilarity," rejoined Hermione.

He gave a short, exasperated sort of exhale and looked away.

"Miss Granger," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked.

"I'm going to keep trying," he said.

"Are you?" she asked.

"You can either decide now to accept my suggestion to go into politics, or you can suffer indeterminate cajoling and then finally, wearily accept my suggestion to go into politics."

"Are you saying that either way, I'm going to accept your suggestion to go into politics?"

"Yes," he replied, so very sure of himself.

"Ha!" she replied, also sure of herself.

"Then I shall see you tomorrow morning for cajoling?" he inquired.

"What makes you so sure this isn't all for naught and I'll never accept?" she asked.

"Your intellect and your insatiable curiosity, Miss Granger."

She kind of felt he was exactly right.

"Why are you so determined it be me, and not someone else?" she asked.

"I submit my previous answer, plus a half a dozen other unique traits I'd rather not list, for I suspect at this point you're only trying to pad your own ego," said Mr. Malfoy.

She leaned her hands on the desk and peered at Lucius.

"If I were to consider your suggestion, what exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Malfoy?"

Lucius Malfoy turned to her and smiled, as if he'd thought she'd been _caught_, as if he'd cajoled her enough, which wasn't true at all, but like he was getting what he wanted and he'd moved on to the _next part of the plan_. Whatever "the plan" was. He leaned on the desk, too, as if in a spirit of confidence, and he said to her this:

"Miss Granger, how would you like to be the youngest Minister of Magic in history?"


	28. Falling In

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: FALLING IN

Her breath caught in her throat. _Her_, Minister of Magic? What, how, why, when, where was he going on about?

"You're crazy," she said in wonder.

"Aren't we all?" he mused.

"Now is not the time to get philosophical about things!"

"Fine," he ceded. "Are you in or out?"

"What are you talking about!" she whisper-yelled at him across the desk, suddenly conscious of the idea of someone, anyone overhearing this particular conversation. "You're the current Minister's _assistant_, and you know as well as I do that he's a good one! Why would you want to conspire to replace him with _me?" _

"Because you'd be a better one," he said, also keeping his voice low.

"You don't know that!"

"I actually do," he said.

"How?" she asked.

He became as aloof as a cat.

"It would take too long to explain," he said.

"Please try?" she asked, at her wits end.

"Perhaps another time."

Oh, Merlin. She glimpsed, for a moment, the labyrinthine depths dealing with Lucius Malfoy would entail and most of her mind screamed at her to simply walk away, to not touch this ball of tar, because this was a situation from which she may never get out. But there was that other part, the part that nagged how very fascinating it all was, like seeing for a split-second a vast vault full of secrets and mystery and she very much wanted another glimpse. In fact, an idiotic part of her wanted to inspect the contents of this vault.

On top of that, and as much as these circumstances should have made her think otherwise, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was sincere. However, this was Lucius Malfoy. Was he ever sincere? He certainly seemed sincere enough since the war, but was it all a façade? Was he playing her in a long con? It tied her brains in knots.

She came out of her thoughts and realized he'd been studying her face.

"You can trust me," he said.

"Did you just use occlumency on me?" she asked, alarmed and defensive.

He had the audacity to look amused.

"No," he said, and then he must have seen her disbelief because he added: "You wear it all on your face, Miss Granger."

Did she?

"Then if I do," she said, "Tell me if I'm going to take your offer today."

He observed her from across the desk, and if it were the case that she wore it all on her face, it was also the case that he was completely unreadable with his strange blue trim and unexplained Roman hair and out-of-the-blue offers of power and greatness to someone he had a long history of despising. And there was also his pleasantness and reformed-ness and politeness, yet approachable-ness… ever since the war ended. Ever since he split with Narcissa Black. Ever since…

"I don't know," he said.

"Are you really Lucius Malfoy?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

She must have looked dubious because he reiterated.

"I am," he said, something of a smile crossing his face. And then, after a pause, "Why?" But he said it as if he were amused by it.

"Because you aren't the same," she said.

"I would have to agree with you," he said.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I will tell you someday," he said, withholding and… sad?

Hermione leaned on her desk and let out a sigh of frustration, letting her eyes fall to the desk-papers under her hands. How was she to trust him if he wouldn't even tell her a single thing she asked?

"Hermione," he said, and there were so many colors in that word as he said it that she felt a chill go down her spine and she drew back.

He looked surprised by his own admission, though it wasn't an admission at all, it was only a name, but it seemed strangely intimate somehow, and for several long moments Hermione's thoughts locked in a futile attempt to make sense of it.

"I'm sorry," he said, breaking all eye-contact and amending: "Miss Granger."

He looked for the door (though of course neither of them had lost it), and then cleared his throat.

"I'll come back another time," he said, extricating himself.

"Wait," she said, though half of her brain disbelieved she'd just stopped him. He was responsive, pliant, he stopped on a dime.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Tell me more," she said, knowing full well curiosity killed the cat but being unable to resist the visceral thrill that satisfying curiosity would give.

-ooOOoo-

Time passed, and no one could do anything about it. It took them five years of combined effort and intellect to manage it, but, once they'd figured out how to maintain something of a parley of trust, they'd done it. It took Lucius bringing to Hermione's attention some of the things Kingsley Shacklebolt had done and tried to silence to make her raging-Gryffindorian-justice instincts stop at nothing to see him replaced. If it was her that replaced him, all the better to keep the office clean. And, in all those five years, Lucius never once called her "Hermione" again.

"Madame Minister," said Lucius to her (in a congratulatory manner) on her first day in office.

"But why does it seem as if you're mocking me?" she asked, giving him a wry look.

"It's your own insecurity at fault," said he.

"You're definitely mocking me," she said.

"Why would I do such a thing? You now have the power to fire me."

"Oh, good! You're fired."

"What have I wrought?" he mourned.

Later, she asked him to go to dinner, to celebrate conquest.

"I certainly would accept your offer, Miss Granger, but it is against ministry policy for us to date."

"'Date'?" she cried, outraged.

"Since I'm your subordinate, and all," he said.

"I didn't ask you on a 'date'!" she objected.

"But how would it look?" he asked, feigning scandal.

"You're fired," she said. "Problem solved."

"Contrary to what you might presume," he said, "continuously firing me will not solve all of your problems."

"But it is so very satisfying," she sighed.

Dinner was fine, but she could tell Lucius was distracted.

"So," she said. "You can just tell me what's on your mind, or I can drag it out of you, kicking and screaming."

"Can we do the latter?" he asked, piqued.

"Not tonight," she said, feeling her new-found authority.

"You're no fun since you've become Minister," he said.

"On the contrary, I think I'm lots of fun," she said.

He gave a sort of half-smile and looked thoughtful. Definitely not normal. She pointed at him.

"Don't you dare do something strange like agree with me," she warned.

"Oh, I wasn't even entertaining the idea," he said, but went on: "To be honest, I was thinking about something else."

"Of what were you thinking?" she asked, curious. She liked his thoughts. They were, perhaps, one of her favorite things.

He seemed hesitant to get it out, so she waited, which is something she'd learned from him, though she'd never admit it openly. He let his eyes fall to his plate.

"It is a pleasure to see you bloom, Miss Granger," he said, sans eye-contact. "To see you reach closer to your potential than you might have otherwise."

She was stunned by his candid demeanor, so much so that she didn't move or say anything as seconds passed. He shifted, and still didn't look at her, but drummed his fingers on the table, because there was something else in there he hadn't gotten out yet.

"Wh-," she began, at the same moment when he started again.

"I-," he began, and paused.

"Please," she ceded, and their eyes met, and she saw something familiar there, but she didn't think she'd ever seen it before.

"Miss Granger," he said. "I think it's time I show you something."

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's important," he said.

"Yes, and," she said, "so…"

She could tell this was difficult, and the sadness she'd seen in him in past years reemerged.

"Mr. Malfoy, what is it?" she asked.

"Will you come to the manor?" he asked.

"Ah, does the part where you assassinate me come next?" she asked.

"Definitely," he replied.

"Well then," she said, calling for the check, "I don't see why not."

-ooOOoo—

The mid-May moon rose above the roof of Malfoy Manor with ease of practice, bathing the gardens, statues, and fountains in greys and blues. Her footsteps on the stone pathway reminded her of the déjà vu on the day of Draco's wedding, and the sound of wildlife in the shrubs reminded her of something she couldn't place. Most markedly, however, the thought of entering Malfoy Manor wasn't bothersome to her as it might have been some years ago. Lucius Malfoy, if he meant her any ill intent, had had countless opportunities to destroy her over the past five years and had never once made the move to do so. In fact, he'd always worked tirelessly in her favor. And his own favor, of course. Fortunately for them both, their life-goals, talents, and intellect aligned in a serendipitous way.

"Has the manor ever been … um… derelict?" asked Hermione as they crossed the grounds.

"Why do you ask?" he replied.

"It's nothing," she said, with an awkward chuckle. It was nothing, to be sure. She wasn't about to tell him about her silly déjà vu years ago.

He stayed silent as they approached the front door, and it opened on its own. Hermione watched it open, feeling as if she'd seen it do that before. She looked at Lucius.

"Have you charmed your front door?" she asked.

"No," was all he said. The sadness which she'd only glimpsed in the past seemed to weigh on him now, and she wondered why. Could it be he missed Narcissa? Did the manor remind him of her? Hermione had no way of knowing, since she'd never once observed him here since the wedding, and certainly not inside.

"Ah, master," said a house elf as they entered. "Shall I prepare tea for you and your guest?"

"Please," said Lucius, and then beckoned Hermione follow him into the hallway. Paintings of elder Malfoys lined the hall, observing them both in silence. Hermione couldn't shake the feeling of heaviness that pervaded the manor, like everything around her was collectively holding its breath.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice feeling small and absorbed by the high ceilings.

"My office," he replied, pensive but resigned.

"What is the matter?" she asked him, and perhaps also asked the manor itself.

Lucius took his time answering, and they'd arrived at what she assumed was his office before he began to speak.

"Miss Granger," he said, moving around the side and behind a large, mahogany desk. Behind him, large windows framed his silhouette, and even further behind was the silvery-blue night sky and darkened landscape of the manor grounds. She felt as if she'd seen something like this before, and it began to nag at her. Never had she experienced so many familiar things in a place in which she had surely never been.

"Have you used a pensieve before?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"I have memories to show you," he said.

"You do?" she asked. This was a very curious development.

He produced a pensieve from a shelf and placed it on his desk.

"You certainly are behaving rather seriously about this," she remarked.

He almost half-smiled.

"I can say that while I do wish to show you these memories, I must admit that at the same time I dread it," he said.

"Why?" she asked. "Have you done something terrible?"

"Are you really asking me that question?" he asked dryly.

"Fine," she said. "Recently. Or in a way that should impact me and my opinion of you."

He looked at her for a moment.

"I suppose that depends upon one's definition of 'terrible'," he said.

"I am so curious," she said.

"That doesn't surprise me," he said.

"Then show me," she said.

"You need to know that nothing will be the same ever again after you see these memories," he said.

"What have you done?" she asked.

"It's not what I have done, per se, but one might say it is what this house has done," he replied.

"This house?" she asked, incredulous, eyeing the walls around them.

He considered for a moment, rapped his knuckles on the desktop either in thought or as a release of whatever tension was pent up inside of him, and he murmured, "I suppose there's nothing to be done for it."

She didn't know if he'd said it to himself or to her, or to the manor, or the universe at large.

Lucius sat at the desk and began magically streaming silver memories from his mind into the pensieve, and he did it with such care she was drawn to believe he found those memories to be precious. She'd never seen Lucius behave in such a way so she couldn't be sure what exactly he was about. Some minutes passed, and in the meantime she pulled up a chair and sat nearby, resting her chin in her palm and observing the silver-flowing surface of the loaded pensieve.

Though he seemed to be done, he stared at it for a long moment.

Hermione cleared her throat delicately and he looked up at her.

"Come on, then," he said gently.

He took her arm, and they fell.

What they fell into was immediately puzzling. Following a blinding flash of light, it looked as if they were in the dining hall of Malfoy Manor, yet there was no dining table, and it looked extremely disused, and to be more precise, it was derelict. _Very _derelict. The sort of disuse that comes from decades of neglect. How could it be this way? How could Lucius remember it so if it had never been this way in his lifetime? And… _oh my. _

"Is that me?" asked Hermione of Lucius.

He glanced at her, but she had more to ask.

"Why do I look … older?"

"And that's you! But you look younger than you are now!"

She couldn't give him time to reply.

"And Luna! And we're terrified!"

"What _is_ this?"

"That will become clear in time," said Lucius, reserved.

"Mr. Malfoy?" asked memory-Luna.

Hermione watched as memory-Lucius collapsed on the floor and the memory shifted to a new one, in another room, equally derelict, a sitting room, full of dust and cobwebs and neglect. She and Luna knelt beside a sofa upon which Lucius woke and sat up in a bolt. She watched as they leaned back in fear, and memory-Hermione even held two wands in defense. It was actually sort of comical. What did she think he would do? Who _was_ this Hermione? It was clearly not her. She'd never experienced any of this. But it felt familiar in a stupid, stupid way that was driving her crazy.

She watched as memory-Hermione caught up to a manor-searching Lucius, and _that_ Lucius, the one in these memories, was the one she had expected all those years ago when he came to her office. He was imperious, he clearly didn't like her, and saw her like a pile of mud that might sully him were he to interact with her too much.

"Fine… what year is it?" she heard memory-Lucius ask.

"… 2015?" memory-Hermione replied, as if she was hesitant to say, but alarm bells went off in Hermione's mind.

"2015?" she demanded of Lucius, who had maintained a sad silence. "That's eight years from now! This hasn't even happened yet!"

"I assure you that all of this has happened," he replied.

"You've travelled in time," memory-Hermione whispered. "You've time-travelled."

Both memory-Hermione and memory-Lucius seemed as if they couldn't believe it, and Hermione herself found she agreed.

"_Did_ you?" she asked Lucius.

"Yes," he replied.

"Did you _really_?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Then… none of this has actually happened, yet," she said.

"On the contrary," he said. "It has all already happened… and will never happen again."

"But how can that be?" asked Hermione. "It's in the future!"

Lucius was silent as the memory shifted to out of doors, in misting greening meadows and hills, by a small stone monolith and a mourning Lucius, stone-still, silent, melancholy. Mourning his dead wife. Hermione only became more and more confused.

"Isn't Narcissa still alive?" asked Hermione.

"Probably," said Lucius, though this scene seemed to pain him. "However, for a time, she was dead."

"She was dead, but now she's alive," said Hermione.

"Yes," said Lucius.

"Dead in the future, but alive in the present," said Hermione, seeking clarity.

"I have no idea what she will be in the future, but she was dead in the past," he said.

"Oh my holy handbaskets!" exclaimed an exasperated Hermione for lack of anything better to say, since the situation only became more and more convoluted and illogical.

Memory-Hermione came and offered to help Lucius find out who murdered his wife. She looked small and ineffectual, as if there was little she could offer, however, Hermione recognized the determination in her eyes. Yes, she was probably going to figure it out, or die trying.

She watched as they investigated, sometimes very poorly, sometimes ingeniously, and as they did so, came closer and closer to finding out the truth.

Draco being in St. Mungo's Psychiatric Asylum was a surprise, although he seemed a lot more tolerable as an invalid. Though memory-Lucius suffered clear anguish over Draco's situation, the Lucius beside her seemed relieved.

She watched memory-Lucius and memory-Hermione become something like friends, and she saw that, perhaps more clear to her than to either of them, that they needed each other, relied on each other, and even respected each other, despite their differences. She even saw through some of their arguments that perhaps their disparate life-views were more similar than either would admit.

"I seem to recall having similar arguments with you throughout the years," she said to him.

"Strange how history repeats itself," he replied, belying a faint amusement.

"And yet, you seemed to know how to reply, as if _you'd already been through it_," was her wry rejoin.

"One uses what one has in one's toolset," stated Lucius airily.

"Cheater," she accused.

"I won," he said. "And that's what matters."

"Can I fire you again?"

"A thousand times, and yet still, here we are," he replied.

She ignored him to watch more.

When she saw the midnight blue ballgown for the spring ball, she was impressed.

"I need that tailor," said Hermione.

"I can find him," Lucius replied.

But when they danced as memory-selves, Hermione took a step back. There was _very clearly_ something romantic going on between them, and it seemed powerful.

"Oh my," said Hermione, suddenly feeling awkward.

"I could try to separate the… more…," he said, then cleared his throat to go on, "_romantic_ parts from the memories."

"There are _more?_" she cried.

He only paused briefly before saying, "Yes."

She looked at him.

"But it would be very difficult to separate them out," he explained. "As they become more and more aligned with everything we were investigat-,"

"Enough," she said, holding up a hand. "It's … fine."

She glanced at their memory-selves, who seemed to be getting into a fight again despite their previous bliss.

"It's just," she said, glancing around for words to describe it. "It's _weird._"

Lucius didn't say anything.

Memory-Hermione ran off into the hedge-maze, and she watched memory-Lucius run his hands through his hair in frustration and begin to pace on the fringes of the hedge-maze, as if he were warring within himself whether to follow her or not.

"I mean," said Hermione. "How did this _happen?_"

"I don't know," answered Lucius honestly.

"But you were there!" she said.

"I still don't know," he replied, helpless.

"That isn't an acceptable answer," she said.

"It just did," he explained poorly.

"Does it not seem weird to you?" she asked.

He coughed.

"It doesn't?"

"It was so subtle I didn't notice it until it was upon me," he ventured. "And by then it was undeniable."

"Oh, Merlin," oathed Hermione.

And so she stopped talking and watched all of it unfold; the discoveries, intrigue, but most of all the falling, falling, _falling _that they did for each other, and the changes, the realignments, the vast nuclear fission that came over them both. Memory-Hermione became far more noble than she had ever expected of herself; she became willing to sacrifice everything for the preservation of Malfoy. What a revelation! What a revolution! What madness! And what power she possessed at the final glimpse before Lucius would be gone; at the changing of the seasons, and the dissolving universe, or that one, the one in which Hermione would never live.

It felt like a death.

But, here she was, sitting in a chair like everything was normal, in Lucius Malfoy's office, the newly minted Minister of Magic. She was surprised to find tears on her face.

They sat in silence for long, weighted seconds.

Lucius broke the silence with the creaking of his chair as he began to methodically, carefully, take the memories back into his own mind.

Another tear fell down her cheek and she didn't know why.

When he was finished, he put the pensieve away.

"Why-," she began, but her voice was watery and stupid.

He folded his hands and leaned on his desk, waiting patiently for her.

She fought against the stupid, stupid tears that were gripping her and asked, "Why am I so sad?"

He watched her and replied, but not without empathy, "I don't know."

"Why are _you_ so sad?" she accused, wanting to know the burden of sadness she'd seen on him throughout the years. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are," he said, and then after a pause: "But you're not _her_."

Hermione felt a blanket of futility drop upon her from the missteps of time.

"Don't," he protested, "Don't despair, Miss Granger."

"Call me 'Hermione'," she said, small.

He paused.

"Look at what you and I have accomplished," he said, clearly _not_ saying her name, "Narcissa is gone, Shacklebolt is gone, Draco is happy and living the life he should have, and you…"

She had leaned back in her chair and was cleaning up the mess of emotional outburst, attempting to restore some measure of respectability.

"You are what I had hoped you would be," he said.

Augh, it made her want to cry again. There was some residue that refused to leave her, something tucked away deep within her psyche that had just been allowed purchase and now screamed for release. She did not have any logical memories of everything she had just seen, but she _felt_ as if it were true, all of it, and that she'd lived it, but she only _felt _it. The pain of feeling was almost unbearable, however.

Lucius became attentive at last and stood, then knelt beside her after pulling a napkin from the nearby tea tray.

"I don't know what is happening," she managed, tears returning to stream down her face as she struggled with emotions that seemed to surge from nowhere but threatened to overwhelm her. She was barely aware of Lucius' kindness as he dried her tears, but he was only making it worse, because now she was also embarrassed as well as feeling a thousand other things she didn't know existed an hour ago. Finally, she just gave in and, taking the napkin from Lucius, sobbed uncontrollably into the bundle of cloth for the first time in as long as she could remember. She mourned and mourned and mourned for the thing she never knew and had long since lost.

In time, she became exhausted and came to herself enough to look towards Lucius. He'd left her side and had been gazing out of the window, towards a stand of perfectly manicured rose-bushes that glowed gentle blue in the moonlight. She decided to join him there.

As she arrived beside him, he began to talk.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I had stayed there, with you," he said. "And if we had thrown all caution to the wind and run off to rule some other part of the world."

"Do you regret coming back?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Yes. No. Of course not. For one thing, I don't think the manor would have had it any other way."

"I think you're right about that," she said, glancing at the window's frame. She would most certainly never look at this manor the same way, again. Some part of her longed for that connection again, to know a house. How strange! Yet, how intriguing.

"And for another… Draco got another chance."

"He clearly did," she said.

"And so did you," he said.

"Oh, did I?" she mused.

"You were squandering your talent," he said.

"I suppose you made sure that didn't happen this time around," she said.

"I had to," he said.

"It of course had _nothing_ to do with my own effort," she said.

He had to smile wryly.

"I suppose you helped," he said. "Some."

"But guess who else got another chance?" she asked, glancing askance at Lucius.

"Hm…" he said.

"You," she said.

"I'm the only linear thing in this timeline, how did I get another chance?" he asked.

"If you had never gone forward in time, how different would you have been?"

"Well, assuming I didn't die at the hands of Narcissa and Kingsley," he said, "quite a lot, I suppose. This thing we've done would never have happened. I would have still been so lost in my pride and prejudice that it never would have occurred to me the endless depths of potential you possess, especially when augmented by the slightly more endless depths of potential that I possess."

She smiled at him and might have slightly chortled.

"Fine, you may be somewhat right," he relented, and she brightened in response. "It forced me to know you."

"It forced us both to know each other," she said.

"Hm, by 'it' are we referring to the manor?" he asked.

"Oh," she said, dawning. "Oh."

She glanced around suspiciously at the house around her.

"But even a house isn't so clever," she critiqued.

"You know it can hear you, don't you?" he stage-whispered.

"What's it going to do, send me back in time seventeen years?" she stage-whispered back.

"Only if you're a threat to the House of Malfoy," he said.

"Maybe I am," she said.

"You are not," he replied.

"Who are you to say?" she said, brushing a piece of lint from her sleeve.

"I simply know," he said, and there seemed to be a fondness in his voice which caused her to look up at him.

"But...," she said, "I'm not _her_."

He looked away, outside, in what seemed like an attempt to stop her from seeing the sadness return. Fat chance.

"No, you're not," he said. And then: "Not yet."

Curious.

She drew a breath, and then narrowed her eyes at Lucius, whose eyes and mind still rested elsewhere.

"I'll go to with you to the Ministry's spring ball if you'll get me that tailor," she parleyed.

"Done," he said with immediacy.

-ooOOoo—


	29. Pulse

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: PULSE

This spring ball was different from _that_ _other one_. For one thing, Hermione and Lucius were who they were and there was no pretense. For another, she was the new Minister of Magic, and thus she had endless obligations to speak with practically everyone she knew, and so did he. They were busy, dreadfully busy, but she managed to talk to Harry at least once.

"Madame Minister, you look radiant," said Harry, with a Ginny on his sleeve.

"Oh, good grief Harry!" said Hermione, exasperated.

Harry laughed.

"Well, you do," he said. "And also I don't want to be drawn and quartered for disrespect."

"I'm fairly certain that punishment no longer stands," said Hermione.

"For now, anyway," said Harry, eyeing Hermione.

Hermione grinned.

"Maybe I'll bring it back, just for you," she said sweetly. "And though I'd like to take full credit for how I look, I have to cede that Mr. Malfoy knows the most incredible tailor you can imagine."

"Of course he does," said Harry in a throw-away.

"He certainly does!" said Ginny, finally stopping her eyeing of the crowd to gaze over Hermione's gown.

Hermione had tried to replicate the gown from Lucius' memories, but with extra-conservatism since she was supposed to be the epitome of respectable now that she was Minister. The midnight blue and the sparkles stayed regardless.

"Do I?" asked Lucius mildly from nearby, carrying a champagne flute.

"Oh, you're back," said Hermione, hoping he hadn't overheard the compliment.

"Not really," he replied, moving on to speak with someone else.

"So," said Harry, after Lucius had left. "You came with Lucius Malfoy."

"He's a good friend," said Hermione, maybe a little defensively.

"Well I can't say I'm surprised," said Ginny. "It seems like the two of you are always together, doing something."

"You mean working?" asked Hermione. "Because that's what we do. Work."

"Did it sound like I was insinuating something?" asked Ginny, who clearly seemed surprised.

Hermione realized the experience with the memories was making her awkward and defensive, but there wasn't any reason for her to be that way since everyone she knew had watched her work closely with Lucius Malfoy for the past five years. If any of them had grievances, they'd already hashed them out with her years ago, and Lucius Malfoy had long since proven his metamorphosis and lack of malice.

"Oh, no, no," said Hermione with a laugh. "I'm afraid I'm a bit distracted, tonight."

Lack of malice was one thing. Hermione had found Lucius to be exceptionally clever and, somehow, he seemed to always end up getting what he wanted. The funny thing was, he never seemed to do it outright, or directly. He did it _sideways_, with subtlety. She certainly didn't want him as an enemy.

"I should say so," said Ginny. "It's incredible that'd you've become the new Minister of Magic!"

"I couldn't have chosen a better candidate," said Harry.

"Thank you," said Hermione, meaning it.

Hermione was certain Lucius didn't want _her_ as an enemy, either.

"Is Ron here tonight?" she asked. She scanned the crowd, but instead of Ron, she spotted Lucius talking with a pair of eastern ambassadors.

"Should be," said Harry. "He's gotten on the staff at Hogwarts for next year, did you know?"

"How perfect!" said Hermione.

Lucius spotted her spotting him. She smiled more.

"I thought so, too," said Harry. "And you are definitely, definitely distracted."

"Oh," said Hermione, turning to look back at Harry. "I'm sorry."

Harry chuckled.

"It's fine, Hermione," he said. "Go."

So she did.

"Would you introduce me to your friends, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione asked as she arrived.

"Surely the Minister of Magic needs no introduction," said Lucius.

The eastern ambassadors were fine. Pleasant. Hermione filed their names and various details away for further use when it became necessary. Lucius seemed to know a variety of people whom Hermione had never met, and she was also able to produce various contacts for him, as well. It was, overall, a very successful evening for them both… in a networking sense. They worked, because that was all they ever did.

Outside, after the ball had been spent socializing, networking, politicizing, they wandered the garden towards an eventual _porting _point, but they did it lazily.

Hermione realized that they'd been walking for at least two minutes without uttering a single word, so she decided to break the silence.

"What do you think?" she asked, a purposely vague question.

"I think it went well," he said, not taking her bait in the slightest.

She used his own tactics and let him stew on that, allowing the following moments to pass without a response from her.

"These sorts of events are invaluable opportunities to gain contacts," he added.

"Mn," she half-grunted. They were both aware of that already. He'd made an awkward comment. She glanced askance at him and saw he knew it, and it made her smile a little.

"Lucius," she said, saying his name, which she had never done before, except in all his memories.

"Yes," he replied, his voice immediate and weakened.

She looked up at the stars, taking her time.

"I think we work too much," she said.

"I'm afraid that, due to your new office, we will be working even more," he replied.

"We didn't even dance once at the ball!" she said.

"You didn't ask," he said.

"Neither did you!" she replied.

"We were both busy," he said.

"Yes, with all the talking," she said, kicking a pebble.

"I didn't think it would be dignified enough for you," he said.

"Not dignified?" she asked.

"It would be best not to bring scandal to your office, Miss Granger," he said.

She laughed.

"Is it too scandalous to dance?" she asked.

"It could be," he said, leaving things unsaid. Certainly, if they danced at the ball like they danced at that _other ball_, it would be not only all over the papers the next day, but … he was right. It would be undignified for her, the Madame Minister. But dancing wouldn't be like that for _them_, not _now, _right?

Hermione sighed.

"We could have danced in a _dignified manner,_" she said.

"Could we have?" he asked, prompting her to look at him. "You have to consider that you are an eligible, young, beautiful, exciting, intelligent, fascinating woman and _any_ crumbs will be both eaten up by the public as well as criticized by the public. They can as easily love you as scorn you."

"I know, I know," said Hermione.

"Any sort of dancing can be misconstrued," he said.

"I _know!_" she said, having enough.

Lucius considered.

"We should have had you married before you took office," said Lucius. "But there wasn't time."

"Oh, very sad we couldn't fit that in," replied Hermione, dripping sarcasm.

"Well, if we had, we wouldn't have this quandary," said Lucius.

"You speak of marriage as if it is a tool," said Hermione.

"It can be," said Lucius.

"How annoying," said Hermione, pulling a leaf off a passing bush.

"Have you suddenly become a romantic after all these years?" he asked.

"No," she said defensively, too defensively. She immediately felt her face flush, and it was all very stupid.

Lucius stopped on the gravel walkway, prompting her to wonder what he was about.

"When I...," he began, and then, "When I showed you my memories, did I make a mistake?"

How strange, that Lucius should ask aloud if he'd made a mistake. This wasn't a thing that Lucius did. Unless, of course, he had an ulterior motive for asking aloud, which was probably 100% likely.

"Stop," said Lucius.

"Stop what?"

"Analyzing," he said.

She sighed at him, and then turned aside.

"Whatever do you mean?" she asked with a chortle.

"Have I created a monster?" he asked. Rhetorically, she hoped.

"Am I your creation, then?" she rejoined, keeping her eyes out upon the garden.

"Do you know all of those stories where someone says they wish they could go back and redo the past?" he asked, sidestepping.

"What of them?"

"Redoing the past is a fool's errand," he said. "There are too many fractals in the world for one man to manage them all."

"Is that what you've done?" she asked.

"I've tried," he said.

"What have you done wrong? Isn't all this what you wanted?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I will never be able to have what I want," he said.

"What are you saying?" she asked, turning to him. "You _always_ get what you want!"

"Do I?" he asked.

"Do you not?" she asked. "I've worked with you for over five years, and I've watched you meticulously arrange and subvert and coerce and coax every single aim you've targeted into the outcome that you desired. Even this, me, obtaining the highest office in the land… and it would have never happened without your tireless focus. And you're saying you can never have what you want?"

Lucius didn't reply and something dawned on Hermione.

"Do you even _know _what you want?" she asked.

There was a shuttering behind his eyes, like something clicked and he cast his gaze aside.

"Incredible," mused Hermione. "You don't."

Lucius' gaze gradually found itself returning to hers, but it didn't stay for long. He drew a breath and let it out.

"I _did_," said Lucius. "I wanted Narcissa and Kingsley brought to my own special justice. I wanted Draco to have a fine, normal, well-adjusted life. I wanted you to realize your incredible potential. But now…"

"Now you don't know what to do," she said.

"That is preposterous," he said, shrugging off the idea that Lucius Malfoy didn't know what to do with himself.

Hermione leaned on a nearby pillar and observed Lucius for a moment.

"Is there anything else you want?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It isn't worth spending the time thinking about, because it's impossible," he said. "It's lost to time."

"Will you voice it?" she asked.

"Miss Granger-," he began.

"Oh, for crying out loud, call me Hermione!"

"I can't."

"Lucius," she said.

"Don't-," he began, but she rounded on him.

"Lucius," she said, taunting him and crowding into his personal space. He responded by subtly edging away. "Lucius, Lucius, Lucius!" She poked him in the arm with each word.

"Oh, dear Merlin!" he oathed, exasperated, pushing her hand down. "Stoppit."

She laughed and cried, "Look at what you've driven me to!"

"To what you have been driven by me," he grammar-ed.

"Semantics," she said, waving a hand.

"You are so very different," he said, observing her, and she knew who she was different from.

She was starting to have it with being compared to memory-Hermione.

"Are you honestly going to keep being so very in love with alternate-universe non-existent unavailable me that you will always see current, very successful me as inferior in every way for ever and ever?" she asked in frustration.

He blinked, and shields went up.

"I'd prefer not to have this conversation with you right now," he said, and began to walk, probably towards the porting point.

"Is it possible that you only allowed yourself to love the past me because you knew you would be forced to lose the past me?" she called after him.

_That_ made him stop and turn.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, clearly critical of her line of reasoning.

"I'm talking about you, Lucius, and your inability to know what you want, and your uncanny ability to deny yourself the one thing you crave," she said, with the crux: "_Happiness._"

"What a ludicrous idea," he said.

"Oh, you have _goals_," she said. "And you achieve them in such a beautiful, miraculous, almost terrifying way that it is astounding to behold, but the instant you have the golden chalice in your hand you're already casting your eyes about, looking for the next one to reach for."

"For which to reach," he murmured softly.

"And so you go on, and will never be satisfied, but for an instant in the past-future-past you could be satisfied with loving the other me, because that happiness would be balanced by the anguish of separation, and you knew it. In fact, the more certain you were of the inevitability of tragedy, the more enamored you grew with the idea of adoring me."

"You presume much," he stated.

"I presume because I know you, and I've observed you all these years, and I've seen your memories, and _yes_, Lucius, you have _created a monster_, but that monster isn't me," she said.

He waited for her to continue.

But she didn't continue. She turned away to walk towards the porting point because, by Merlin, she was going to make him work for it, but he didn't even let her move more than a step before he'd grabbed her arm and whirled her to face him again. She didn't expect him to touch her. That wasn't something he did. It was like suddenly being thrust into seeing a different side to a person you thought you knew, and realizing tactically that that person possessed an entirely new dimension.

"Please continue," he said, all veneered and placid, yet simmering underneath, a threat beneath calm waters. His hand still clutched her arm, and she observed but more _felt_ that he absolutely needed/wanted her to finish.

She gazed at him, strength and confidence in a challenge to his quiet malice. His grip on her arm softened and then dropped away, but she almost felt like she wanted him to touch her again.

"Lucius," she said, and though she was firm, she was also tender in a way. "The monster you've created is _her._"

He stared at her in disbelief for a moment. Then he simply turned and started walking away.

She hadn't realized past-Hermione was so ridiculously _sacrosanct. _

"You're proving my point!" she called.

He kept walking.

"Lucius!"

Still with the walking. Ridiculous. Hermione wasn't having any of it, and she ran to him and did her own arm-grabbing, and did it well actually, or perhaps it was that he was pliable and allowed her to turn him to face her because he wanted to.

"Do you want me to explain?" she asked him.

"No," he replied.

"If you allow yourself to continue to pine after something that isn't there," she explained, completely ignoring his response, "then you can continue to deny yourself happiness interminably."

"What a stupid thing to say," he replied. "Why would any sane person do such a thing?"

"Because you don't think you deserve happiness," she told him.

He looked as if he was losing what little patience he had left, so she sped it up.

"And so you've created this idea in your mind of past-Hermione, which you have wrapped in a glass shell and idolized, and now nothing will never live up to her, no one, no experience, and you're trapped, just where you want to be, and there's your monster that lives under your bed at night, leaving you bereft of meaning and purpose and happiness," she said quickly, getting it all out.

"Oh gods, must you analyze me," he groaned.

"And you're sad… so very sad," she said.

"I am not," he said, entering the stage of denial.

"I've seen it," she said, calling his bluff.

He didn't reply.

"The ever-elusive happiness," she said to him, and she touched his arm, and she knew he could not look away from her. "I can't give it to you."

He waited.

"Neither can she," said Hermione.

She saw something desperate creep subtly into his features, but it passed as quickly as it came.

"It has to come from you," she finished.

"How trite," he said, though his voice was weak and he didn't seem to mean it.

She softened her grip on his arm and wondered as she let her hand fall away if he would feel like he wanted her to touch him again, too.

"Will you come to the manor tomorrow?" he asked.

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm fairly certain it misses you," he replied, without any guile over having made such an absurd statement. "In its own… ah… _house way_."

"Do you talk to your house often?" she asked, half a smile pulling at her face.

"Don't you?" he asked, but now he was being funny.

"Yes," she said, but she was answering his earlier question. "I'll come tomorrow."

Why did tomorrow not seem soon enough?

-ooOOoo-

Regardless of patience or impatience, tomorrow did come, and it rained diagonally and as Hermione walked through the cast iron gate and up the path towards Malfoy Manor, beneath her umbrella she could have sworn the rain had a personal vendetta against her ankles. As she reached the front doors, they opened for her.

"Thank you," she said to Malfoy Manor, and she entered.

The foyer was empty.

"Mr. Malfoy?" she called, her voice echoing back from the polished floors and wood-paneled walls and mirrors and golden chandeliers, and then fading into nothing but her steps.

She knew the way to his office, so she went that way.

The hall was filled with portraits of ancestor Malfoys. Again, they watched her in silence. Why were they always so silent? Were they still waiting for something? Or would they not speak to her due to who or what she was?

Lucius' office door was closed, and she began to wonder if she should knock, but before she could, the door opened on its own.

"I suppose I'm welcome, then?" she asked, entering.

No one was there. She turned to look back at the door, which was still open.

"Now this is simply getting weird," she said.

The manor was silent, and she could hear the soft buzz of rain falling heavily outside, on the veranda.

Exhaling, she leaned a hand on the desk. As her hand touched the polished wood, she was struck with a vision.

It was the same office, the same perspective, but Lucius was standing there, in front of the windows, looking at her. He was wearing black. His hair was long and stark against his clothes. The brilliant rose of sunset was behind him, framing his form and she knew this was a memory, but it wasn't _his_ memory… it was _hers_, and he was beautiful. Was it her memory remembering this or did she currently think so? It was hard to tell because the memory held emotions and yet she experienced her own current emotions at the same time.

"Lucius," she said in her memory with meaning and purpose, and with the newness of the familiarity of calling him by his first name, and there were nerves, too. His gaze was intense upon her.

"May I ask you some questions?" she asked.

She saw him shift, not only physically, with his silhouette outlined by umber and pink and burnt sienna, but internally. Memory-her didn't see it, but Hermione did now. He became fixed upon her, confused by her, frustrated by her, yet delighted in her, wondered at her, and wanted more, more than he had wanted anything in a very long time. How wonderful he was at keeping it all silent on his face.

"Don't you always?" he asked, waiting for her questions.

"You're here," said another Lucius, and the rose glow of sunset faded into gray downpour. The vision gone, she turned to see Lucius leaning on the doorframe to the office, dressed darkly with pale Roman hair, and regarding her.

"I am," she said with a smile, realizing that this Lucius she couldn't read, but that one she could. Was it the house that gave that to her? And if it did… why?

"You look troubled," he remarked.

"It's your house," she said, glancing around her.

"Is it?" he asked, prompting for more.

"I believe I just saw one of my memories," she said, and then clarified poorly: "The memories that I don't have."

"Oh?" he asked, interested. "Which one?"

"It was here, and the sunset was behind you, and I said your name and asked if I could ask questions, and it was very mundane," she said. "It wasn't like much happened at all."

Though she kept to herself the insight into his emotions.

"I may remember that time," he said, shifting his weight and coming into the office proper.

She found that as she watched him, she became more curious about what sorts of emotions he could be currently hiding. If he had stood before her then, roiling with emotions and not showing a single mote of it on his face, there was no telling what was happening now, if he should desire to hide it.

"Why are you watching me like a specimen?" he asked.

"Oh," she said. "No reason."

"Come with me," he said, and he seemed to know there was a reason, but he allowed her to keep it to herself.

She followed, and as they walked she considered. If he could hide that much emotion behind a placid façade, how much pain did he experience all those times when he came across as kind of sad? Trying to contemplate it was mind-boggling.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"My special library," he said, as they entered the normal library and made for the secret door that led up to the turret in which his special books were held. Hermione couldn't help but be instantly delighted at the prospect. "Since I must take the blame for steering you away from the book-keeping vocation, the least I can do is make my rare collection available to you."

"Are you feeling guilt for meddling in my life, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, amused.

"Of course not," he replied. "The result of my meddling is much preferable to bookkeeping, wouldn't you say, Miss Granger?"

"Time will tell," said Hermione, aloof.

"I approve," announced Lucius. "Despite your ingratitude, time certainly will tell."

She felt as if there were something to figure out in his statement, but didn't get the chance, for they'd arrived up in the top tower that she had only seen in Lucius' memory. The shelves were filled with extraordinarily interesting books, and she was instantly intrigued. She glanced at Lucius.

"Go ahead," he said, giving his permission.

She beamed and moved to peruse through the books, but the instant her hand touched a book, she was struck with another memory.

In the memory, she had thrust open the small turret window and leaned out, smelling the early spring air and gazing over the darkest blue and silver gloaming of pre-dawn. She was filled with the excitement of staying up all night investigating with Lucius, the thrill of books, the thrill of finding trust with someone so interesting and strange.

"Oh, look," she said with a smile for Lucius, "Dawn is upon us."

Lucius sat in a chair, watching her with a forgotten book in his hands, and he was unreadable to the Hermione that was there. She felt herself in this memory wondering what he might be thinking, but _she_ knew. He wanted her to stay. Some part of him wanted her to stay _forever_. Yet, he was terrified of that part of him. At that moment, he was warring within himself whether to offer for her to stay that night in the manor, and struggling to not be totally, utterly beguiled by her smile. He was trying to maintain some semblance of civility and respectability, but he began to feel crushed by the strain in this moment. Most of all, he just so badly didn't want her to go. If she could only stay _a little bit longer_… but he knew he was fooling himself if he thought "a little bit longer" would suffice.

How _illuminating_.

"Miss Granger?" asked Lucius, and the scent of pre-dawn spring was replaced with books and wooden furniture. She turned to see him sitting in a chair. The _same _chair. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," she said too quickly, still with her hand poised in the act of barely touching a book.

He merely sat and looked at her.

"I had another memory," she explained. "It was here, but pre-dawn, and you were sitting in that chair, and I was leaning out the window."

"I do remember that," he said.

"Do you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, offering nothing further.

"What do you remember about it?"

"You fought a book with a poker," he said, some bemusement in his features.

"Ah, yes," she said, hefting a book in her hands. She couldn't help but glance back at Lucius, considering his methods for hiding emotion.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, quickly looking away to flip through the book's pages. A long moment passed filled with the sound of paper.

"What aren't you telling me, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"Mn," she said non-commitally. She put the book away and went to the window, yanking on the latch to open it, expecting it to be rusty. It wasn't, and it flew open very easily, so the act of opening the window came across less svelte than she would have liked.

She heard Lucius get up out of the chair behind her, and she leaned out of the window.

"It isn't raining anymore," she said. Though still gray, the sky had ceased leaking.

"Come with me," he said from behind her.

"Again?" she asked.

"Again," he said.

She wanted to go with him anyway. This time, she didn't ask where they were going, but she merely let him lead her through the hallway of silent, watching Malfoy portraits, to a sconce which he pulled, and into a secret passage that led up, up. She knew from his memories where they were going, and she recalled in his memory he held her hand while he led her, but now he only walked ahead. She wondered what he might be feeling.

Within the narrow passageway they climbed, she brushed her fingertips across the built stone of the walls, and thought she sensed something, an aura of sorts, a feeling, coming in waves, and it was from Lucius. That feeling was anxiety. Was he anxious? How did she know this?

The aura left and she wondered where it went, but she realized she had stopped touching the wall. Experimenting, she touched it again and the aura returned. Oh. _Oh. _The house, the house! Was it communicating with her? How did it know what he was feeling? But it did. It knew. Was this a thing it could do because it was the House of Malfoy? Why would it want her to know?

They reached the ancient, winding stairs that led sharply upwards, and Hermione touched the wall the entire way. She thirstily absorbed the information the house gave her all the way up. How thrilling was it to sense his emotions after all these years of not really knowing! He felt anxiety, sadness, fear, disbelief, and a tiny flicker of hope he tried to stamp out at every moment. And somewhere, deeply submerged, he wanted her to stay, but with less abandon than in the other memory. He was cautious… so very cautious. And terrified of failure.

Opening the high door, they emerged from close, dark quarters to the wide open gray skies and distant green lands of Wiltshire. It was one thing seeing it in another person's memory, but it was another to truly be there. The air smelt of rain and growing things, fresh, clean, perfect, and the clouds hung heavy to the verdant horizon.

"Do you think it'll rain on us?" she asked as he began to lead her along a catwalk of sorts.

He looked up at the sky.

"Perhaps," he said, seeming unconcerned.

She couldn't know if he was unconcerned or not, because she wasn't touching the house and had lost her secret weapon.

"Um," she said, feeling heights as they came to a narrow way over a courtyard.

He turned to look at her, then smiled a little, and held out a hand. A few days ago, she wouldn't have felt weird about taking his hand, but now that she _knew things_, well, it was just different. She was more aware. Achingly aware. She took his hand anyway. It was slightly rough, warm, and he was wearing a ring. She found she liked it.

"Shall we move on?" he asked, and she realized she'd completely stopped moving. "Do you need more help across?"

"No, no," she insisted, imagining "more help" would mean more physical contact, which she wasn't sure she could deal with right now.

Ignoring the drop-off to the right, she focused on Lucius in front of her, and the hands between them, and she managed fine. Heights, shmeights. But in the course of focusing on Lucius, she found they'd come to the Malfoy sniper's repose from his memories, the place where they'd kissed the first time in that time in the future-past, and the place where that other Hermione had been fully accepted by Malfoy Manor.

_But am I that Hermione? Am I not? Does the Manor accept me, even though it doesn't know me? Or does it know me already? _

Questions cursed her and sunk her into depths.

"I recognize this place," she said conversationally.

"Do you?" he replied, equally conversationally.

They both kept whatever thoughts and feelings they might be experiencing completely to themselves. He leaned upon the railing to look at the fields, and so she did, too, but when she touched the railing she again was vision-ed, and it was _disorienting_, to say the least.

She was kissing him, and she had fallen into the depths of surrender, and so had he, and the intensity of emotion struck her now as being beyond anything she had ever experienced, so much so that in her memory she had to break the kiss to keep what was left of her wits about her.

"I am _finished,_" she sighed, meaning it to her bones. It was all over, she was his, no matter what that meant, no matter what consequences it caused.

"I am _not,_" he said, the promise of more kisses and more madness in his voice, and in his emotions, which nearly crushed her with their pure strain, pure color, a hue of brilliant vermillion stark against a field of white. He wanted her, he loved her, he let fear go for once in his life, and he was almost mindless with the freedom. He valued her, only her, beyond all the wealth, time, and power in the world at that moment.

The emotional residue of the vision ebbed, leaving her in waves. As it faded away, Hermione found she was clutching the railing, white-knuckled. Her breath was short and she wondered if she was going to fall, faint, or do both. Her senses became heightened, and she heard the wind, saw the swirling gray hues in the sky… and the caught the scent of autumn and a thousand memories. _Lucius. _He hadn't said a word or made a sound. She turned to look at him.

He was watching her, dark contrast against the light gray sky, his pale hand gripping the railing with as much white-hot intensity as she. He was still, tightly strung like a violin, waiting, waiting, and afraid of what he might find in her.

Wait, how did she know he was afraid? She glanced down at her hand on the railing, and then released it. She looked at him, and she still knew. She just knew, and this she had done all on her own. Achievement unlocked.

He looked as if he might ask her something, but his question couldn't quite make it to realization. In this state, given all she had been shown, all she had learned, everything she _knew_, she wanted to comfort him, to touch him, and she suddenly wanted to be closer to him. She moved and reached out at once, and through instinct he pulled back slightly, yet seemed unable to look away. She paused and waited, her hand in midair, and so did he, his hand gripping the railing, ever gripping the railing.

His face told her everything she needed to know, he was waiting, he was transfixed, he was terrified, but underneath it all, he wanted. She moved again, and he stayed still. Her hand moved past his face, past his ear, to touch the platinum roman hair, to slide through it, to assure him she was there, to end at the nape of his neck, warm, hot, the side of his neck was hot, his pulse pounded like a deep plucked string, resonant, constant, she placed the pad of her thumb over his pulse, felt it, counted it with her senses, and looked up into his face.

He was breathless.

"What did you see?" he asked, his voice betraying him, his eyes showing awareness of his voice betraying him, but being unable to fix it.

She counted his pulses, one, two, three, four.

"You," she said, letting her other fingers brush across the nape of his neck. His pulse jumped, skipped a beat. She had him now, in the ultimate lie-detector, she could feel his life-blood pulsing beneath her thumb and she could feel his every change and reaction.

"Me?" he asked, casting, searching for lines. "What about me?"

"I know you," she said, watching him, feeling him. Faster.

"What do you know about me," he said, faint words without faith, already knowing it was probably all true, lacking conviction or denial. Perhaps he hoped it to be true.

"I know how adept you are at hiding your true feelings," she said.

"How should you know such a thing?" he asked.

"Your house told me," she said, which didn't seem strange at all, but should have.

Lucius appeared both betrayed and relieved.

"I believe it's time you relent to that which your house wants," she said.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Your happiness," she said.

She let her hand fall away from his neck and turned to make her arduous way down from the overlook, allowing him to stew on that for a while. Let him work out his happiness in his own way. He was very fortunate, as far as Hermione was concerned, to have a whole, ancient, wise manor looking out for his best interests. Sure, they lived in a magical world, but it was still unusual. Hermione would have appreciated such a thing. On the catwalk, she suddenly felt him take her wrist from behind.

"Wait," he said.

It made her nervous, being unbalanced on the catwalk overlooking a courtyard, and even more, being taken by the wrist and turned to face a very anxious Lucius Malfoy. This wasn't a normal look for him. She looked away, but unfortunately down, to the deep courtyard, and vertigo struck her.

Closing her eyes hard, she groaned, and he pulled her into his arms.

How strange it was to be in his embrace after all these years, to not catch his scent in brief, intangible bursts, but to inhale it, full, heady, all that she wanted, it was hers to experience, hers, hers… how steady his arms held her, how safe she suddenly felt, how the vertigo dropped away like discarded scales and his strength enveloped her. Her exhale was slow and realized.

The embrace melted away with hesitance, and Hermione found she didn't know how to react to its ending, and so she looked up to Lucius' face for answers.

His lips parted, and then, after a final inward assault, he surrendered her name.

"Hermione."

He said it like he had years ago, once, only once, but all the colors of every thing flowed throughout his voice when he did it. She caught her breath at it, for as he said it, a warm wind rushed across them and across them passed _magic, _the magic of colors, of time, of who they were and are and will be, and she saw at once he was the sum of all the selves that he had ever been, and she felt as if she were all the things she was and had forgotten and could come to be. In that moment, time stopped being linear and became circular, one, a place, all of time in one, and they were there, feeling it flow across them and _knowing_. She knew who she was, she knew _what _she was, and she knew what she meant to Lucius Malfoy.

The wind, the time flow, the magic faded away and Hermione found herself out of breath and stunned.

"I am the Warden of Malfoy," she said, gazing in wonder at Lucius, because now she knew.

"You are," said Lucius, grateful, and also knowing.

There was no awkwardness, there was no fear, there was no hesitance. They came together at once and kissed, embraced, she ran her fingers into his hair, his arms pressed her waist, and rain fell as the clouds abandoned their restraint. Hermione didn't care, neither did he; their joy was, momentarily as it always is, _full._

-o-

Later, they sat upon the green velvet couch in his office, nearly dried.

"I remember all of it," she said, in response to a query posed by Lucius.

"How remarkable," he said, and though she noticed he was trying to restrain himself, his voice still betrayed wonder and joy and gratitude. How long had he been waiting, fearing to hope? "The manor gave it all to you. But…"

"Yes?" she asked, her hand touching his arm, his sleeve. She couldn't _not_ touch him.

"I wonder why it took so long," he said.

"I think," she said, considering, "the manor was waiting for the right time."

"It is wiser than us both," he said.

"Clearly more than you, at least," she replied with a half-smile.

He gave her a light shove in response, and she went willingly, falling back against the upholstery. He came with her, leaning over her, a sudden warmth overtaking them both, and he was suddenly tender, his hand, his thumb, caressing her cheek.

"I've been thinking about it," he began.

"Thinking about what?" she asked, bringing her hand up to touch his face.

"It's about your office," he said, gazing upon her.

"The Minister office?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Is something the matter with it?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said as he brushed her hairline with his fingertips. "It's where you should be."

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"I think it would be best for the office if you were married," he said.

"Oh?" she asked, a soft laugh falling across her. "Best for the office, then?"

"It would be the most reasonable thing to do," he said, his gaze and his hand caressing her features, as if she were priceless, as if it were some form of worship. His reasonable words mixed with his ardent actions sent a thrill through her, truly aiding his cause.

"As my assistant, I will take your counsel into consideration," she replied, brushing her fingers across his pulse. Blood beat in his veins, steady, strong, hot, sure. She looked up to meet his gaze. "I expect a list of candidates on my desk tomorrow morning."

And then he kissed her.

THE END

-ooO\/Ooo-

_**A/N: It is finished. Thank you very much for reading and for all the kind reviews. **_


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